


Down the Rabbit Hole

by Camorra



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Idiots in Love, M/M, Someone please teach izaya how to flirt he's a Wreck, unconventional flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-04-23 06:25:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14326530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: It doesn’t cross Shiki’s mind for many years that it wasn’t Orihara Izaya that was brought into the Awakusu-kai orbit, but rather they sucked into his.He learns not to mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drx/gifts).



> originally based off of this, but rapidly spiraled out of control. https://varrix.tumblr.com/post/172214780261/random-shikizaya-headcanon-48675906more-shiki  
> because you have to write the getting together story at least once, ne?
> 
> thanks to steph, quality control and spell checker.

Orihara Izaya is brought into the Awakusu-kai orbit at the ripe old age of sixteen because he can  _ run really fast. _

“That’s not it,” Kine protests in the face of Akabayashi’s amused puffing and Shiki’s flat stare. “Heiwajima’s a  _ monster.  _ It takes real skill to come out of that sort of thing alive, it’s  _ insane.”  _

“Sure,” Akabayashi agrees, “but that doesn’t mean the kid’s any good at information collection. Just means he can run well. And has no self-preservation.”

Kine just shakes his head and leaves, muttering all the while about seeing it in action and how unbelievable it is and  _ something _ about a vending machine.

“You know,” Akabayashi says, using one cigarette to light another, “you’d think he’d be able to come up with a better cover story.”

“If he’s being blackmailed by a high school brat, I wouldn’t expect too much,” Shiki says, because the yakuza isn’t exactly where all the best and brightest end up.

“It might not be blackmail,” Aozaki says, because he has to disagree with Akabayashi on all things, all the time. But even  _ he _ doesn’t sound convinced and he’d argue with Akabayashi on whether the sky was blue without batting an eye.

“Well, if he  _ is  _ blackmailing Kine, then he’s probably at least decent at sniffing things out,” Shiki allows. 

“Sounds like a real piece of work, though. There are other ways to contact us with information offers,” Akabayashi complains.

“Sure,” Shiki says, “like the business cards we keep handing out. Or our highly publicized office space.”

“Any idiot could figure out the art gallery is a fake,” Akabayashi counters. “We’ve got, what, two pieces of art in there?”

“More than one is still a collection.” And there’s Aozaki, arguing on a technicality. 

Shiki tunes them out, because there’s nothing worse than squabbling children in your place of work.

It doesn’t cross Shiki’s mind for many years that it wasn’t Orihara Izaya that was brought into the Awakusu-kai orbit, but rather they sucked into his. 

 

“What it really comes down to,” Aozaki says, slamming a meaty hand onto the table, “is if we trust him.”

“Of course we don’t trust him,” Akabayashi scoffs, “we’re not idiots.” It’s said with a sly glance and clear implication of just who, exactly, is an idiot. 

Aozaki grits his teeth and his hand hovers over where everyone knows he keep his knife in a clear, empty threat

Kine says nothing, taking the cowards way out. Even though he was the one to deliver the news. Even though he’s the only one that  _ knows _ Orihara.

Shiki taps his fingers on the table, one by one. 

“Either way, we have to go,” Shiki says, “there’s no question of that.” 

Akabayashi makes a noise of agreement and starts fishing for his cigarettes and playing with his ornate cane. 

“They’re waiting to ambush us,” Yurihara says, eyes wide and disbelief written all over his face. He’s new. “With guns. At negotiations. That’s enough of a breach of trust, isn’t it?”

“No,” Akabayashi and Shiki say at the same time. 

“We go,” Shiki says, “because if we don’t, the breach of trust is on us.”

“The real question,” Akabayashi says, leaning forward in excitement that he doesn’t bother to hide, “is whether we bring weapons.”

Like anyone believes for a single second that Akabayashi would take a shit unarmed. 

Shiki taps his fingers on the table, slowly. One. At. A. Time.

Damn that fucking Orihara.

Can’t  _ ignore  _ information like that. But negotiations are too delicate with too much at stake to take it at face value. 

He rather suspects Orihara knows that, too. 

 

Shiki doesn’t let Kine meet back with Orihara. 

Intelligence and recruitment is usually his field, but Orihara’s clearly a different breed. Not a strung-out junkie Kine’s used to handling, or the someone that owes the Awakusu-kai something, and Shiki thinks he’s forgotten that. 

Knows he’s forgotten that, really. 

“Orihara’s a good kid,” Kine says, grabbing a cigarette with his teeth out of the box, “really. He’s as loyal as they come. I’ve got a good read on him.” Kine’s shifting from foot to foot as he speaks, like he can’t quite get a comfortable position on the wall he’s leaning against. 

Shiki knows exactly jack shit about Orihara and he can tell that’s a massive load of crap.

“I’ll be his point of contact from now on,” Shiki tells him, and Kine frowns but nods.

“I’ll give you his phone number.”

“No. Tell him to go to karaoke bar off of 83 rd Street at nine on Tuesday. Don’t give him any more details.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Kine doesn’t look excited.

Oh, good. He’s still got a single brain cell left. Shiki wasn’t sure after hearing him sing a teenager’s praises. 

 

When Orihara first saunters in, with all the confidence of a man twice his age, Shiki thinks that some college kid got lost, came into the wrong karaoke booth. 

Knowing Orihara is young is one thing. Meeting a  _ child  _ is quite another. He looks like a strong wind could scatter his bones to the four corners of the earth. He looks delicate. 

Untested. 

But then the boy smiles like a shark catching the scent of blood in the water, and Shiki knows this is person he came here to meet.

“Hello,” the boy says, voice pleasant and almost friendly,  “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.” His eyes dart around the room, but not nervously. He’s simply taking stock, checking for exits. Weapons. Shiki’s done it a thousand times, has seen Akabayashi and Aozaki do it everywhere they go. “Any of you, really.”

Shiki has two subordinates in the room, looming behind the couch where he sits. Not because he feels particularly threatened by this boy, but because he has a point to prove. He brings them not for their tact and discretion, but because they lack it. 

“I’m Shiki Haruya,” Shiki says, lighting a cigarette. Show disinterest, like he’s barely worth your time, but be polite about it. Be  _ subtle _ . “I’m the only one you need to be concerned with.” 

“It’s a pleasure, Shiki-san,” Orihara says with a small bow. “I’m Orihara Izaya. I look forward to working with you.” And he takes a seat across from Shiki, placing a file envelope and a flash drive in front of him on the low table. “I have the information Kine requested.” 

“I see,” Shiki says, tapping the ashes out in the ashtray. “But before we get to that, I’d like to discuss what happened about two weeks ago.”

Behind him, he can hear Jiro shift from foot to foot. It’s better than he could have hoped. Orihara’s young and pretty, and Jiro’s always had a hard time keeping his hands to himself where pretty boys are concerned. 

“A lot of things happened about two weeks ago, Shiki-san,” Orihara tells him with a small smile. “If you could be more specific, I’m sure we could negotiate a price.”

“About two weeks ago, you gave Kine a tip about future negotiations with another family in the city.”

Orihara nods, gesturing for him to continue.

Shiki waits.

“Oh, pardon me. I didn’t realize that was a question. Yes, that’s true.”

“Where did you get that information?”

Orihara smiles. “From a source inside the other family.”

“Then perhaps you should check your sources better,” Shiki says, as Jiro’s shifting becomes more pronounced, “because it turned out to not be true.”

Maybe it  _ was  _ true. Maybe they really  _ had _ planned to gun the Awakusu-kai down as soon as they sat down at the table. Maybe he’s sitting here today because a high schooler was bored of his tiny little life. 

But there was no shoot out, no matter what Akabayashi wanted, that fucking lunatic, just the suggestion of weapons at the hip of every man there.

Including his. 

“Wasn’t it?” Orihara says, and he’s pretending to sound thoughtful, going so far to place a finger against his chin. “Or did your latest shipment of handguns just forestall any action on their part?”

Oh, now that just won’t  _ do. _

“Orihara,” Shiki starts, dragging the syllables out long, “I understand you’re a freelance informant. But we generally expect a modicum of loyalty from those in our network, you understand.”

Orihara does not look like he understands.

Or, rather, he looks like he  _ does  _ understand, just isn’t terribly concerned about any consequence it might have. 

“What’s not loyal about preventing a shoot out?” Orihara says, honey sweet and oil slick. “I think I saved lives, Shiki-san. The lives of those under you, maybe even yourself.” 

There’s a lot of ways Shiki could respond to that, but before he can choose one, an employee pokes her head into the room, like he had planned.

But what shitty timing.

“Excuse me, there’s a call for Shiki?” she says, before slipping out the of the room. In a few more years, that excuse won’t work anymore. It barely works now. 

“Pardon me, Orihara,” Shiki says as he steps out and closes the door behind him.

And waits. 

Counts to sixty five times, then to thirty for good measure.

Swings the door open.

He knows what he expects. 

He expects to see Jiro looming over Izaya, maybe even closer. He expects to see Orihara cowering and squirming and uncomfortable under the beady eyes of his men.

He does not expect to see Jiro on his knees. 

He does not expect the knife to his throat, the bloody red slash to his side. He does not expect the fear written on the face of the one still hiding in the corner. He does not expect the light in Orihara’s eyes, that look that says he will kill and he will not regret. He doesn’t expect Orihara to smile at him as he comes back into the room.

“Ah, apologies, Orihara,” Shiki says smoothly. “Did my subordinate cause you trouble?”

“Nothing that couldn’t be handled,” Izaya says through his shark’s smile.

“I feel responsible.” Shiki says, grabbing a handful of Jiro’s hair, using it as a lever to smash his head against the corner of the table, not looking to see if Jiro survives. “We do not treat our valued associates in this way.” 

“I should hope not,” Izaya agrees, Shiki knows he’s not talking about Jiro.

 

Orihara gives him two things.

One is manilla envelope with two folders inside, one green and one red. These contain the profit breakdown of the largest casino in Tokyo, along with information about the owners and top management. 

The other is information about the last middle-ranked boss of the Awakusu-kai to go rogue. It’s surprising in depth, includes exact trains and buses he took to skip town, his daily schedule of his new life in Kyoto. 

The other thing Orihara gives him is a flash drive. 

“Do we have a computer around here?” Shiki asks Akabayashi, twirling the flash drive between his fingers. 

“We do,” Akabayashi confirms, looking up from his phone. “But I’m not sure I’d plug that into it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, the computer’s connect to our servers,” he says, as if that should mean something more than it does to Shiki. “No idea what’s on that flash drive. Might be a virus. Get one of the idiots in the showroom to buy you a cheap piece of shit from one of the used electronic stores.” 

“Sounds rather expensive for opening a flash drive.” 

“So does chopping off a finger.”

That's… a fair point.

There's probably a way to safely open it on one of the computers they already own, something that won't require a completely separate computer and would be really easy for someone who's computer skills amount to  _ I can make a really bitchin’ Excel spreadsheet.  _

But he makes some idiot from the art gallery out front go get him an old dinosaur of a laptop. Something that he remembers being top of the line a few years back, but is horribly outdated now. Such is the way of this fast-paced world. Keep up or be left behind. 

The flash drive only takes a moment to load, and it’s full of pdf’s carefully labeled and dated. They don’t make much sense at first glance, but it’s a clear chronological progression. 

Order Forms, Certificates of Import, receipts for transportation. 

It’s impressive. There’s not a single second that the cargo goes unaccounted for.

There’s just not a single place that it actually says what the cargo  _ is.  _

“Hey, Kine,” Shiki calls. Akabayashi lifts his head up from where he’s tapping his smart phone like some dumbass high schooler.

He could pass it off as something productive, but there’s the distinctive  _ yahhooo  _ of Angry Birds every few seconds. 

“He’s not here.” 

“Do you know what he was tracking?”

Akabayashi finally puts his phone down and comes to stand behind Shiki. “What?”

“Orihara gave me pdf’s tracking something into downtown Tokyo, but it never says what it is.” 

“Probably drugs, then,” Akabayashi says, pushing off. “There’s been an influx of cocaine recently into the club scene. I asked Kine to look into it. Do you mind forwarding me those files?”

“Ah, sure,” Shiki says, going to connect it to the internet, when the computer starts making noises like it’s been possessed, fans whirring and spinning and generally creating a racket.

Then, all of a sudden, it stops, the screen going blank before it boots back up with the OS logo.

“The hell?”

“Where’d you say you got that flash drive again?”

“Orihara.”

“Ah,” Akabayashi looks. Amused, but in the way that usually precedes bashing in a few skulls. “He tried to scoop all the computer data. Might have worked, too, if this computer wasn’t a heaping piece of shit.”

“What?”

“It didn’t have the RAM or CPU to—”

“Don’t care.”

“Right.”

 

Orihara sits across from him next week in an Awakusu-kai owned bar Shiki knows he’s not old enough to be in, sipping on what looks like a coffee from the McDonald’s a block away. 

He looks like he belongs here, relaxed from his head down to his toes. Like he didn’t try and infect the computer of a top Awakusu-kai executive with a virus to mine his data and isn’t currently sitting across from him.

Like he’s completely unaware that Shiki is entirely capable of bashing his skull against this shining wood table and not regretting a single second.

The balls on this kid are unbelievable. 

He’s really very lucky that Shiki can see potential, has a magnanimous side a mile wide. Maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ the kid won’t end up dead in a gutter before he hits twenty-four if he learns some restraint.

“I’m sorry, Shiki-san,” Orihara’s saying, not looking sorry in the slightest, “but I only have half in the information you requested.”

“Oh?”

Orihara nods, sighs in mock regret. “I’ve been pressed for time.”

“I asked for no more than usual.”

“It’s exam season.”

Shiki shakes his head, not entirely believing what he’s just heard. “That’s your problem, Orihara, not mine.”

“I’ll have it by Thursday, is that acceptable?”

Not really. It’s rather time sensitive, you see. 

“It’ll do, but your payment will be cut in half.”

“That’s fine.” Orihara makes to leave, gathering his school bag and his coffee and shrugging into some god-awful fur-lined coat. 

“One more thing,” Shiki says, and Izaya turns a lazy gaze on him. “Your coding is sloppy, Orihara. Broke my computer. Furthest thing from subtle I’ve seen in awhile.” Shiki take a drink from his beer, “I hope you’re not that unprofessional with all your jobs. Some have been killed for less in this business.”

Orihara smiles at him, all teeth. “Don’t worry, Shiki-san, I endeavor to learn from my mistakes.” 

“See that you do.”

 

The problem with running an art gallery as a front is that you actually have to stock the thing with art. 

He put Akabayashi in charge of it this time, gave him a budget and let him run wild, trusting him to pick something modern and hip with the times to replace the rather outdated works and those that managed to be sold.

There are no words to express his regret.

Next time, he’s printing the Mona Lisa on printer paper and taping them to the walls, anything has to be better than what Akabayashi’s dreamed up. 

“I like them.” Akabayashi’s smirking behind his cigarette. “True art, right there. Comments on the human condition.” 

The one Shiki’s holding’s is of a rat. A cartoon rat. In bed.

Fucking another rat.

Kine’s holding another, this one a large rat looming over a smaller one, hand propped up on a wall, subtext loud and clear.

They’re not all like this. That one over there is a collection of random color splotches over old newspaper clippings.

About sex scandals and crimes

The one huddling over in the corner is two clown starting into each other’s eyes. Naked.

He thinks Akabayashi’s trying to tell him something.

Also, Akabayashi is never allowed to choose the art again. 

Ever.

“We could keep one in your office,” Shiki says, tempted to accidentally drop his cigarette and see if it’ll take. “I think you ordered one more than we have spaces to fill. Take your pic. Which is the one you want to stare at every single day? I’m thinking clown dicks, seems to suit the inner you.”

Also tempted to just flat out have it burned. 

“Nah, I think that would be unprofessional,” Akabayashi says, trotting out ‘unprofessional’ like it’s Shiki’s trigger word or some shit. “Like infecting a top Awakusa’s computer with a virus. Like that kind of level.”

Kine snorts. “Like anyone would be that stupid. They can’t get away with that shit.”

Akabayashi looks at Shiki. “Yes. They can’t be allowed to do that, can they?”

Shiki looks at the art he’s holding again. “That reminds me. I had some questions to ask about Orihara.”

Kine settled his arms across his chest, stance wide, jaw tense. What interesting body language to present to your superior. 

It’s not enough to cross the line into insubordination, but it’s pretty damn close

“I ran into him the other day,” Kine says, tone just this side of accusatory. “He said it was an absolute  _ pleasure  _ to work with you.” 

He’s sure it is. Not everyday you can run roughshod over a top yakuza because he can’t figure out what connections you have. But the  _ tone  _ Kine’s using. The emphasis. 

The little shit’s been intimating something, hasn’t he?

Now he can’t ask if Orihara has any connection to someone more powerful, it’d look like he’s covering his own ass for indiscretions with a young boy. 

Orihara gets away with a virus in his computer for the foreseeable future, enough time to make himself invaluable, to cozy up to someone above Shiki. 

Can’t tell Kine that Orihara was the one that tried to mine his computer, makes it look like he’s scrambling to cover his ass. 

What a damn nuisance, like he has time to be making sure those within the network are actually loyal.

“It’s always a pleasure to work with me,” Shiki shoots back. “Because I know how to be a professional.”

Kine continues to side-eye him the rest of the week.

 

Orihara skids into the cafe half an hour late, winded and sweating slightly. 

“Terribly sorry to keep you waiting,” Orihara says, sliding into the booth across from Shiki. “I ran into some trouble on the way here.”

Distantly, Shiki can hear: “Where the fuck did you go, flea?! Think I can’t find you, huh?!” And he slides his phone out from his pocket, as unobtrusively as he can. 

“That’s really not my concern. Did you bring the information, at least?” He’s not as adept at texting as Akabayashi is, but he’s decent. Enough to fire off a quick message, at least. 

“Yes, yes. Of course.” Orihara rummages around in his school bag, pulling out a pink folder, sliding it across the table. 

If it contains what Shiki hopes it does, he’s not going to open it here. Instead, he sets it down on the seat next to him.

“I know I’ve said this before, Orihara, but I simply can’t stress the concept of loyalty enough to you. The idea that we can trust what you give us is the complete and accurate picture of what’s going on.” 

“Oh?” Orihara props his face up between two hands. “I think I’ve heard you mention that once or twice, yes.”

“You realize that trust is, of course, a two way street.”

Orihara tilts his head to the side, a glitter in his eye. Shiki can see what he’s thinking. He’s thinking:  _ only if you’re lucky.  _ He’s thinking:  _ what business do you think I deal in, if not the untrustworthy? _

Because he’s young and stupid and has no idea what control and self-restraint look like.

“Of course,” Orihara agrees, instead. And his eyes are calling Shiki  _ stupid, stupid, stupid.  _

Shiki slides out of the booth, because he’s heard of the legendary fights, has seen the aftermath, but has absolutely no intention of sticking around to witness one. 

He walks out as Heiwajima crashes in, meets Orihara’s eyes. 

And finally,  _ finally,  _ he thinks he sees something that might resemble understanding. 

 

There’s a life-size cardboard cutout of Hijiribe Ruri in the office.

“Why.”

“Because,” Akabayashi says, and he’s grinning like he does when he’s seven beers in and just discovered puns as the epitome of humor, “this is an art gallery. And she  _ is _ a work of art.”

Can’t argue with flawless logic like that.

“I’m not sure Awakusu will be thrilled to see it.”

Akabayashi shrugs. “Haven’t you heard? He’s gone to a business seminar. How to better integrate your company and build relationships.”

Of course he has. 

“What for?”

“I don’t know. Maybe this time he’ll bring back the idea to give us all a retirement fund.”

That’ll give him the popularity he desperately wants. Might even need. As it stands, the Awakusu-kai faces the possibility of a split down the middle, those that support Mikiya and those that don’t. He’s not a  _ bad  _ choice, he’s just not an especially good one, either. Lacks the ruthlessness to create big change or the charisma to cover for it, but he’s steady.

But steady isn’t what they need and steady isn’t going to cut it.

Three of his men were knifed in a dark alley the other night in the dead center of Awakusu territory outside of a host club frequented by the Awakusu. It’s under the Awakusu in pretty much everything but name. 

So, a hit. A provocation. 

The thing is, no real calling card. It’s easy to point at the Asuki group, but Shiki doesn’t think that’s quite it and has the horrible suspicion that it’s just someone who wants them to  _ think  _ it’s the Asuki group. Someone who wants word and anger to spread and to have the Awakusa rush in outmanned, outgunned, and out-financed.

Fantastic.

But  _ he  _ can’t sniff around the Asuki group, that’s just asking for trouble. 

But asking Orihara? That’s liking throwing gunpowder into a fire you’re trying to put out. 

But he’s  _ good. _

Maybe it’s time to see if Orihara finally understands that actions have consequences.

He sends off a text. 

Orihara has a file folder for him within two days, photos and backgrounds and affiliations. 

It’s not the Asuki group, but some low-level color gang. Just kids, really.

“But it  _ is _ the Asuki group,” Orihara says, chin propped up on a hand. “Just fairly far down. The one with the black hair, he’s the younger brother of one of the members. The lower ranks are getting edgy, you know. Not quite satisfied with the slow going.”

“How do you know?”

“Easy. Some of them were complaining at the last poker game. Fairly good indicator, ne?”

“You play poker?”

Orihara smirks at him. “No, I sit pretty on the laps of everyone there. Yes, I play poker.”

He’ll have to play Orihara one day, see if he’s any good. 

But that’s a problem for another day.

Mikiya doesn’t come back with a scheme for a retirement plan, to Akabayashi’s dismay. He comes back with “corporate trust” and “building relationships” and “fostering loyalty.” 

He’s going to get knifed one day and Shiki won’t have to hire Orihara to find who did it. 

  
  


Orihara stops wearing school uniforms to exchanges, which makes it far easier to meet in public without attracting unwanted attention.

Instead, he wears that truly awful fur-trimmed coat and jeans  _ all the time.  _

It’s got to be eighty degrees outside, the humidity making it feel more like you’re swimming through molasses than breathing air, and Orihara waltzes into the Awakusu-kai office like it’s an air-conditioned wonderland instead of a cheap sweatbox.

“Shiki!” Orihara sings, weaving around those stationed to guard the doors like they’re not even there, “I’ve found the  _ pickle.” _

Shiki wishes that he’d the foresight to choose any other code word. Crayon. Rice cake. Something that even Orihara couldn’t put a spin from something innocent to something filthy. 

Next time he’ll choose something more innocuous. Like chocolate. 

Or hopefully, there won’t be a next time. 

But Shiki’s not naive. Their organization is one of the few sources of guns in Tokyo, they’ll always be one of the first targets for stealing firearms. 

You can be careful. You can have as much security as you want. But you can’t make it impenetrable without losing accessibility. It’s a real dilemma. 

“Have you now?” Akabayashi drawls. “Teenagers usually find theirs much earlier, but you might be a late bloomer.”

“It’s a codeword,” Shiki says, suddenly very tired. 

“Obviously,” Akabayashi says. 

“Not for penis,” Izaya says cheerily, “I’ve known where  _ that _ is for a while.”

“Did Shi—”

“Where is it, Orihara?” Shiki cuts across Akabayashi. It’s an attempt, but it fools exactly no-one. Orihara’s looking between him and Akabayashi, a dangerous light in his eyes. 

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Orihara says to Akabayashi. “I’m Orihara Izaya.” He’s polite enough, complete with a small bow. 

“Akabayashi.”

It’s the tone of voice Akabayashi reserves for people that he’d really like to kill, but won’t because he’s  _ mature _ now and has self-control. It’s the polite, cool one that pours over your skin like cold silk. Because Akabayashi is the sort that wants you to know that he’s making a conscious choice to spare your life, because his power games are ham-fisted and crass. 

“I look forward to working with you,” Orihara says, then very sharply executes a one-eighty turn, coming face-to-face with Shiki very abruptly. 

It’s one of the clearest dismissals Shiki’s ever seen, and Akabayashi’s got a hard smile on that doesn’t reaches his eyes, and he’s fingering his cane speculatively. 

“I know where it is,” Orihara says again.

“Let’s discuss this in my office,” Shiki says, before you get yourself murdered, he doesn’t. He steers Izaya by the shoulder into his “office,” really a converted side room where conversations that not everyone needs to be privy to occur. 

There’s couches there, and a desk with a rapidly aging computer. No windows, and bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling. Cement walls. Altogether, a very homey atmosphere, really. But it’s not supposed to be. One key to making sure you have the upper hand in a conversation is making sure the other isn’t comfortable in their surroundings. 

Orihara doesn’t seem to mind, though. 

He settles on one of the couches like it’s his own living room, pulling out a phone and tapping on the screen.

“Like I’ve said, I’ve found it.” 

“So you’ve said. Care to tell me where it is?”

“Of course. It’s one of the underlings usually hanging around here. A Sato Kimihiro? He’s been keeping it on him, don’t know why.”

Shiki freezes. “Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Shiki sends a text off to Akabayashi. “I’ll have your payment ready in a moment, Orihara.”

“Of course, of course. Take your time.”

Akabayashi is nothing if not fast, has Sato in the room double speed, Orihara looking up with curiosity from the couch. 

“We’ve been hold you’ve taken something from us,” Shiki says. “You know what that means.”

“I don’t have a knife,” Sato splutters

“I do,” Orihara glances at Shiki, pulling a knife out of his belt. Shiki gives a slight inclination of his head, and Orihara passes the knife over, flicking it gracefully out of it’s handle. 

Sato takes it, holding it in his right hand. Shiki can see as he considers simply attacking, taking the knife and using in to fight his way out.

Shiki can see the way that idea dies when he looks at Shiki.

Orihara hovers at Shiki’s elbow, eyes riveted as Sato takes the knife and holds it high. 

Far too high. Shiki’s seen this far too many times. Too low and you lose the power for a clean cut. Too high, and you lose aim. If he’s lucky, Sato will only hit the table instead.

But Sato is not lucky. He was caught, and he catches the base of his pinky with the blade, more than is demanded of him.

He doesn’t even manage to severe it all the way.

Sato looks up with a pained expression on his face, as if expecting Shiki of all people to take mercy. To help. 

Shiki simply looks back.

Sato regrips his hold on the blade, wet now with blood, and presses feebly down. 

Idiot. 

If it’s caught on anything, it’s caught on bone.  _ Pressing _ down won’t help. 

Sato seems to realize this too, pulling out the knife with a pained whimper and a gush of blood, soaking the cloth beneath.

It’s one of the messiest rituals Shiki’s ever seen, not to mention one of the more pathetic. 

Sato does eventually manage to slice his finger off, wrapping it in the cloth and presenting it to Shiki with bloodstained fingers. 

Shiki accepts it, taking it in both hands. Sato scampers out the door. If he’s intelligent, he’ll be going home to wrap that up.

“What do you do with that?”

Ah. Shiki almost forgot Orihara was here. 

He’s peering at the white cloth Shiki’s holding, curiosity bright in his eyes. 

Shiki pulls into his pocket and shakes out a handkerchief, using it to pick up Orihara’s bloody knife, handing it to the nearest underling. “Go clean this.”

He turns back to Orihara, still looking up at him. Apparently still able to look him in the eye. 

In fact, he’s gazing up with a sort of mild curiosity, as if the whole thing had been a mildly interesting presentation and not an exercise in human pain and regret. 

 

Shiki’s worked with Orihara enough that he’s gotten a rough idea what the different colored folders mean. He supposes that when you work with the sheer amount of information that Orihara does, you need some sort of system, but the amount of paper that Orihara presses into Shiki’s hands is completely at odds with the trend he’s seen of younger generation. 

The red folder is roughly what he expects. “Why not go paperless, Orihara?” Shiki says as he flips through the file. It’s what he asked for, laid out meticulously on printer paper. He knows that he’ll find specifics in the back, receipts and credit card statements from the person of interest when available, to back up the generalities in the front. 

“I was told it was rather unprofessional, once,” Orihara says, propping an elbow up on the car door. “I always aim to please my clients.”

Is it just Shiki’s imagination, or was that last line delivered with a bit of a purr? Even if it was, he really doesn’t have time to be indulging the fantasies of high school boys.

Ah, but he’s not in high school anymore, now is he?

Shiki raises an eyebrow. “Really, now.”

“Yes,” Orihara’s twisting a silver ring around a finger, the motion too lazy to be considered a nervous tick, but odd nonetheless, “It’s more secure to have hard copies, anyway.” 

Shiki remembers the days of data  _ exclusively  _ on paper reams, secured away in cabinets in locked rooms in secret warehouses. He’s still not sure he’d call any of that secure, too much supposedly “secret” information passed through his hands for that to be true. 

“Is it.”

“You’d be surprised what you can dig up online, if you know what to look for.”

He’s supposed to ask what you can find online, so Orihara can flaunt his prowess or shock Shiki with a piece of information about him that he’s not supposed to know. 

Shiki indulges him.

“And what did you find online?”

Orihara smiles, presses a finger to his lips.

“I’ll tell you for a quarter.”

“Must not be very interesting information, then.”

“Oh, it is,” Orihara assures him, “but I can’t just be giving things away for free, now can I?”

Shiki sighs and reaches into his pocket for his wallet, rummaging around for a coin he’s not entirely sure he carries. 

He hands Orihara a bill instead. 

“You overpaid a bit,” Orihara says, pocketing it. “I’ll apply it towards your next payment. But that’s not important.” Orihara waves his hands as if to clear the air of any mentions of money. “Akabayashi has a girl.”

“Everyone knows that.” And that’s sort of true. Everyone knows some version of it and pretends they don’t, because you don’t want to think of a coworker like that at all. 

“Sure, but they don’t know  _ who _ the girl is.”

Shiki really doesn’t want to know who the girl is, because then he might have to do something about it. Or not. He really just doesn’t want to know. 

“It’s the daughter of the love of his life."

_ Akabayashi has a daughter? _

Orihara’s laughing, a full-body giggle that has him clutching at his stomach and wiping tears from his eyes. 

“Don’t fret. It’s not  _ his.  _ It’s a real soap opera, honestly. Falls in love with a married woman with a child. Ah, but she’s dead. Died in a home invasion gone wrong. A junkie, apparently. Wanted the stash the husband held. A few days before Akabayashi left his old family, you know.”

No, he didn’t know. And Orihara shouldn’t either.

“Don’t go poking your nose where it isn’t wanted.”

Orihara waves his hands. “Oh, don’t fret. Nothing that will alert Akabayashi’s old family of his whereabouts, do give me some credit.”

“And why tell me this, Orihara?”

Orihara tilts his head, a smile on his lips. “I hear you’ve been considering going into the drug market. You may want to reconsider.”

Shiki  _ does _ like living. 

 

He meets with Orihara every week after that. Not intentionally, but because Orihara is fucking good at what he does. 

Orihara will crawl into the car, somewhere not far from a local college, with no hesitation. 

“I don’t warrant a karaoke bar anymore? I’d love to see you belting out some trite pop song.”

Shiki ignores him

“After all these years I really feel like I’ve been taken into the bosom of this organization,” Orihara continues, smiling like he hasn’t a care in the world. “Like I’m a trusted and valuable member.”

“Do you have the information I requested?”

Orihara pouts. “Hey, now. Of course I do. But how am I supposed to feel loyalty to a faceless entity? A corporate cold and unfeeling above me?” 

“Like everyone else does.”

Izaya pulls a folder out of his bag, this one a bright blue.

“This information is a bit more expensive than anticipated.”

“It happens sometimes, Orihara, but we agreed on five hundred.”

“But I’m willing,” Orihara continues, giving all the appearance of not hearing Shiki, for all they’re less than a foot apart, “to leave the price as is for a trade.”

Cute, that he thinks he has the power here. Like they’re sitting in  _ Orihara’s _ car, with Orihara’s driver. Like Orihara has the weight of an organization known for its cruelty and mercilessness behind him, waiting in the shadows. 

But he has balls. Shiki  _ almost  _ respects that. 

He might respect that, if he wasn’t the one that had to deal with it.

“We agreed on a price, Orihara.”

“Oh, but it’s nothing much.” 

Is it easier to relent or stand his ground?

“What is it, Orihara?”

“Information for information.” 

“You know I can’t give you information on the organization, Orihara. I’m not one of your informants.”

“I’m not asking for that.”

Orihara’s got the folder on his lap, and it’d be an easy thing to snatch it up. But Orihara’s stupid enough to take slight assaults against this ego as cause to take the organization down. If anything, it’ll make working with him a real pain in the ass. 

“What do you want, Orihara?”

“Are you married?”

What. Is he hoping to leverage a wife and kids against him? Unlikely, but not out of the realm of possibility. Or, what. Orihara finally stepping up his game since he’s out of high school?

“Who’s asking?”

“Me, of course.”

“And who asked you?”

Orihara laughs. “No one. I promise not to sell this information. Strictly confidential. Secure as you could want.”

Anyone who trusts Orihara deserves the knife they find sticking out of their back. Like he couldn’t find out in three seconds flat if he wanted.

Like marriages aren’t a matter of public record. Like Orihara doesn’t already know. 

He’s signaling that he’s interested.

Because he’s  _ young  _ and  _ cocky  _ and  _ pretty,  _ so of course the only thing in his way would be a prior commitment. 

“No. I’m not.”

“Really? No little bastards running around? No one waiting in the wings?”

“That wasn’t want you asked, Orihara, hand it over.”

“Well, a deal’s a deal,” and it’s in his hand, and he’s flipping through. It’s the usual level of work and quality he’s come to expect.

But Orihara’s more interesting right now.

He’s  _ nearly  _ got himself controlled. It  _ almost  _ looks natural, but Orihara never sits with his legs spread wide when he’s relaxing. Sure,  _ other  _ men do, but Orihara seems to want to crunch himself into as little space as possible, be as self-contained as possible. 

Shiki settles his hand on Orihara’s thigh as he holds the folder out and he swears Orihara stops  _ breathing  _ for an entire second. 

“What do you mean when you say the ‘infrastructural integrity is compromised?’”

“Oh, just that the building has taken a few too many earthquakes, doesn’t quite meet code anymore.”

Shiki hums and pulls the folder and his hand back. Orihara looks on the verge of a heart attack, a finger spinning a ring around and around, pupils dilated so his iris is only a thin ring.

When Orihara leaves, Shiki looks him dead in the eye and smiles.

 

They run brothels.

Akabayashi thinks they return about sixty percent of the wages they pay out that way.

Shiki thinks that number is astronomically too low.

Not that Shiki goes himself, but it’s a bad idea to let them run unchecked. Far too many places for money to go missing down the line, far too many ways the prostitutes could go abused without it being seen. 

It’s irritating that he has to keep so many tabs within his own organization to make sure everything runs as it should, but here he is, a prostitute sitting across from him at the table.

The problem with Yuki is that she’s getting on in years, won’t be as much use to him soon. Even now, she’s almost out of touch with those younger than her in the house, and it shows. 

But it draws less attention when they go out to eat.

And it’s more convenient to sleep with someone that already knows your  _ tastes _ . 

Yuki used to eat like a starved animal, grace not making up for the fact that she stuffed her face with whatever was in front of her.

Now she picks at her plate, taking small bites. 

“Ah, but my days are tedious. I want to hear about yours.”

It’d be so much easier if Yuki knew she was his main source of information.

Shiki has a sudden picture of fur trim and smirks and small holes that make entire stories unravel.

Or maybe it wouldn’t.

“It’s not so very interesting,” Yuki laughs, a delicate sound. “But I’m afraid this will be my last time out.”

Shiki raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“I can’t keep doing this forever,” Yuki shakes her head, a sad smile. “It’s been good to me. But I’ve gotten a new job offer.”

She’s gotten a job offer?

With what education? With what  _ skills _ ?

There’s something here.

“Congratulations,” Shiki really wants a cigarette. “What are you moving on to?”

“Oh, I’ll be a secretary at the new bank offices down on Sunshine,” Yuki’s smiling, genuinely pleased, swirling the wine in her glass. “It’s not something that I would have considered for myself, but he said I’d do fine.”

He.

This reeks of shady.

“Oh?”

Yuki giggles, like she can’t  _ believe _ she let that slip. 

Shiki doesn’t believe that for a goddamn minute.

She’s banking on the wine, swirling it to draw his attention, but she’s too bright eyed. One of her arms is under her breasts, propping them up into his view. 

“Oops, I shouldn’t have told you. But there’s this guy that swings around the house sometimes. He’s  _ great _ .” She sighs that last word out, full of innuendo. Shiki doesn’t let his jaw clench. He doesn’t care who Orihara sleeps with, in fact, it’s hysterical that he has to turn to a brothel of all things to get any. 

No, wait.

She didn’t say it was Orihara. 

But he feels like it is. 

“Terribly sorry, I need to powder my nose.” Yuki slips off from her chair. 

If it  _ is  _ Orihara poking around the brothel, he really hasn’t got much to worry about. Not that Orihara is exactly harmless, but he’s also not a police detective looking for information, looking for things to get them shut down. 

There’s a rustling across the table, and Shiki looks up to see Orihara slide into Yuki’s seat. 

A waiter follows not long after, and plates are cleared and two cups of coffee find there way to the table, the waiters moving quickly out of earshot. 

“You don’t look pleased to see me,” Orihara says, picking up his coffee cup, taking a sip. “I could put out at the end of the night, if it makes you feel better.”

“What are you doing here, Orihara?”

“I’m having a nice cup of coffee.” Orihara lifts his cup as if to give a suggestion.

Shiki doesn’t bother to ask where Yuki is. She’s clearly been paid off, didn’t even head in the direction of the restroom when she stood up. 

It’s too bad. He didn’t realize that he’d been looking forward to getting laid until the option was off the table. 

Judging by the way the waitstaff has avoided their table like the plague, no one will mind too much if he lights up. 

“It’s been a while,” Orihara says, his fingers skimming the rim of his cup. “How have you been?”

It hasn’t been a while, not by any stretch of the imagination. He saw Orihara exactly three days ago.

But he’ll play along. 

“I’ve been well, Orihara. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. Business going well, I’m doing well.”

No, he can’t do this.

“Been to any good brothels lately?”

Orihara’s quicksilver smile is there for an instant before he hides it behind his cup. “Not particularly. They’re all the same, all rich colors and dim lighting. But yours was nice enough, I suppose. Girls were friendly, that’s for sure. Told me some very  _ interesting  _ things, Shiki-san,” the last part is said under eye lashes with a suggestive smirk. 

“Glad to hear that we have another satisfied customer.”

Orihara giggles behind his cup, eyes glittering. 

“I didn’t say that I was a customer, Shiki-san.”

“Ah,” Shiki says, bringing his hands up on the table. “We don’t take kindly to those that don’t pay.”

“You’re only expected to pay if you use the services, ne?” Orihara says, smirking slight and fiddling with his coffee spoon. “But I confess, I don’t have that much experience with brothels.”

There’s the quick glance under the lashes that says both,  _ I don’t need it  _ and  _ unlike you.  _

Or perhaps he’s projecting. 

“But I’m not here for that,” Orihara says. 

“Then what are you here for?”

“Build business relationships, of course,” Orihara takes another sip from his coffee. “I hear it’s not uncommon to know your employer outside a business setting.” The last line delivered with a coy smile and lidded eyes. 

“Well, informant,” Shiki says, leaning back in his chair. “What have you been reading lately?”

Orihara laughs, propping his head up with an arm. “For business, enrichment, or pleasure?”

“Enrichment and pleasure, I guess.”

“Well,” Orihara taps a finger against his lips. “Lately I’ve been reading on just war theory for enrichment. It’s fascinating, but most of those that are considered experts can’t write their way out of a bag. For fun, I read the latest Tsukumoya novel.”

“Any good?”

Orihara’s smile has a bit of an edge to it. “It’s utter trash, but I feel obligated. Nothing makes an author cry faster than insulting their work, ne?”

“You know them?”

“To my great displeasure. What about you? What have you been reading?”

“Haven’t had much time, recently. But I hope to read the next  _ Jack Reacher  _ novel when I get the chance.” There’s no ash tray at the table, so Shiki uses the saucer of his coffee cup, since he has manners.

“Don’t get enough action in your life? Need to vicariously live through someone else?”

Shiki shrugs a shoulder. “They’re light and easy.”

Talking with Orihara is surprisingly pleasant. Sometimes, just  _ sometimes, _ he has shockingly clear insights for one so young. 

Other times, he resembles a toddler high on cocaine.

But for the most part, he’s wonderfully witty, and the hours pass more quickly than Shiki expects, the waiters sending significant glances over at their table long before Shiki thinks they should. 

“I think we’re outstaying our welcome, Orihara,” Shiki says, shifting to grab his coat and Orihara does the same, the same furred thing he wears everywhere. 

“Shame,” Orihara says, trailing him out the door. “I suppose we could always continue somewhere else, ne?”

Orihara doesn’t look hopeful, he’s smirking and his hands are in his pockets and his shoulders back. 

Shiki leans forward, and he’s got a few inches on Orihara and he uses them to loom. Orihara tilts his head back to meet his eyes, and this close Shiki can see that his eyes are really mostly brown with flecks of red that seem to dominate. 

Shiki’s not looking for a relationship.

And this reeks of a  _ date.  _

“Goodnight, Orihara,” he says instead, watching irritation flash in Orihara’s eyes before he turns and walks away.

  
  


To everyone’s horror, Mikiya actually makes them do “corporate bonding” exercises. 

“People are less likely to want to betray you if they know you personally,” Mikiya says, looking far too pleased with himself. “It creates emotional strain.”

“So what, we’re supposed to take our least trustworthy out for drinks until they don’t want to betray us anymore?” Akabayashi says around a cigarette.

Apparently, the answer is yes.

Orihara’s pretending to be drunk off a glass of apple juice, swirling it around like it’s real beer, like anyone at the table thinks it’s real beer. It’s a good tactic, it might even have worked if he wasn’t sitting it's people with an IQ above seventy.

Shiki’s pretending to be tipsy on a rum and coke, because he’s not a fucking child and can handle his drinks, but also because having your opponent underestimate you is how you win. 

Orihara’s leaning hard against his shoulder, like he’s so drunk he can barely keep his weight up. He’s doing a rather good impression, but Shiki can smell the sweetness instead of the stale scent of beer.

“Ah, this is a good time,” Izaya says, putting enough drag on his syllables that’s it very convincing, enough that you have to wonder how many times he’s done this. 

“It’s  _ bonding, _ ” Akabayashi says, downing his fifth shot of whiskey and not looking like he feels it at all. “Maybe a bit of a celebration. Heard you turned twenty, Orihara. Congratulations, surprised you made it this far.”

Shiki can feel Orihara stiffen against his side, but Orihara’s good enough to keep the slackness of drunken pleasantness on his face. “Ah, thank you.” 

Awakusu’s looking at Orihara speculatively, and Shiki’s not sure he likes that look, even if there’s nothing particularly dangerous about it. 

Shiki pulls out a pack and slides from the booth, mumbling about a smoke break.

  
  


He doesn’t have to wait long. Orihara pushes the door open before Shiki’s gotten a quarter through the cigarette.

It’s Orihara that plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and kisses him.

Orihara tastes sweet, like the juice he’s been drinking but smells like the cigarette smoke from the bar.

“You reek,” Shiki tells him, shoving Orihara down to the floor of the alley way so his knees hit the pavement. 

“You sweet talk all of your fucks like this?” Orihara asks, watching Shiki’s hands on his belt and then his fly. 

“Like you ever needed to be talked into any of this.”

Orihara doesn’t protest, his mouth is already preoccupied, swallowing Shiki down. He can’t tell if it’s Orihara’s drunk act that makes him sloppy or if it’s sheer inexperience, but there’s far too many teeth pulling at skin they really shouldn’t be. 

Shiki grabs handfuls of Orihara’s hair, holding him steady, Shiki's cock slides deep into Izaya's mouth, pressing into his cheek and begins to thrust into his mouth instead. Orihara doesn’t protest, doesn’t gag. Instead, he hums, low and deep, and it sends vibrations up Shiki’s spine.

Shiki tugs him back, because he has  _ class  _ and coming into someone’s mouth isn’t classy.

Orihara is easy to pull back to his feet, to push against the wall. It’s easy to pull him out of his pants, stroke long and easy while Orihara bites his lip and squirms and digs sharp nails into his shoulder, coming with a broken off moan.

Orihara’s half leaning on the filthy wall where Shiki is and half slumped against Shiki, even as Shiki tries to blow cigarette smoke in his face.

“Gonna walk me home, Shiki?” Orihara tries to slur his way, innuendo heavy and obvious.

“Nah, I’m sure you can find your own way.”

He doesn’t have to look to see Orihara pouting at him. “In this condition?”

“Unless apple juice affects you in a way it does no one else, I think you’ll be fine.”

Orihara laughs, bright and clear. “How’d you know? Even my credit card receipt says it’s beer.”

“Because they’re two very distinct things, and I’ve been doing this for a long time.” Shiki takes a long drag. “Most people don’t get slurring drunk after a few sips, either.”

“But I’m  _ thin,”  _ Orihara complains, laughing. “I  _ could. _ ”

“Usually men brag about alcohol tolerance, not the other way around.”

Orihara gives a half-hearted shrug. “What can I say, I’m one of a kind.”

That might be the first completely honest thing Shiki’s ever heard him say.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I say 3 chapters? I meant 4.   
> also, we earn our E rating. yaaay
> 
>  
> 
> thanks Steph for beta-ing.

Shiki sits back to back with Akabayashi. 

On the ground.

_ Crisscross~ Applesauce~ _

Like he’s  _ five. _

“Are we  _ really  _ doing this?”

“Don’t you want to have a better working relationship?”

“I thought we did, now that we had stared deeply into each other’s eyes for sixty seconds.”

Akabayashi makes a dismissive noise. “Nope. Only got one eye, means it was only half effective. Now draw.”

“What am I drawing again?”

“It looks kind of like a rubber duck that’s been shot in the head with an arrow then went through the blender.”

Shiki sets the pen down so it rattles on the floor. 

Kine looks up from where he’s sitting back to back with Aozaki, busily scribbling on his own sheet of paper and glares at Shiki.

Shiki picks his pen back up. “Fine. Fine.”

“It’s hard to blame him, he really wants what’s best.”

Which him? 

“And is trying really hard to achieve that.”

Ah. Mikiya. The reason they’re all gathered in a single room to  _ connect with each other to build trust. _

Shiki’s gotta say, he sincerely trusts at least three people  _ less  _ now that he’s had to look into their eyes. There be murder in some of those depths.

“Does he now?”

Maybe he really does. But if  _ doodling  _ in anyway helps the cohesiveness of the upper management, Shiki will cut off his left nut. 

“But this is one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done,” Akabayashi finishes, as if Shiki hadn’t spoken. “The problem really isn’t in the upper management, you know. Well, some of it is. It’s really the middle ranks that hate him.”

“But we’re responsible for the middle ranks,” Shiki reminds him. “If we present a united front, we can press them into submission.”

“If only it really worked like that.”

“No reason why it shouldn’t.”

Akabayashi snorts. “Not everyone hands out loyalty just because it’s the right thing in the situation. Some people need others to earn it.”

 

If Shiki said that giving Orihara a hand job in a dirty alley changed nothing, he’d be lying.

Well. 

Sort of.

“Five thousand.”

“Seven.”

Shiki taps his fingers on the desk. “It’s unlikely this job is worth five thousand, let alone seven.”

“I think that’s for me to decide, ne?” Orihara’s smile is sharp and hard. “Perhaps I have more information on the situation than you think. Six thousand, final offer.”

Shiki drums his fingers on the desk, staring at Orihara silently. But he doesn’t so much as squirm in his seat, looking back at Shiki calm as could be.

That’s simply  _ outrageous  _ for what he’s asking.

Orihara’s  _ expensive,  _ but he’s never  _ blood sucking. _

Problem is, Orihara’s good at what he does.

“Five and a half.”

“Deal.”

“Better be some damn good information.”

“Don’t fret. It’s worth it, I promise.”

That’s not new.

Orihara crosses over to Shiki’s side of the desk, leaning back against the edge and hooking a finger in the thin gold chain he wears around his neck.

This is.

“How much convincing do you need to fuck me across this desk?”

Less than Shiki would like, but more than Orihara’s offering, that’s for damn sure.

Shiki stands, planting a hand on either side of Orihara’s hips. He’s not tall, but he’s tall enough and Orihara’s slouching.

“Now why,” Shiki says, quietly, making sure his breath plays over Orihara’s ear, “Would I do that?”

“Don’t tell me you’re not interested,” Orihara says, tilting his head. They’re close enough that his nose brushes Shiki’s cheek as he moves. “I know you are.”

“Is that all you have to convince me?”

Shiki makes to pull away, but Orihara’s fingers tighten in the chain at his neck. “What else could there possibly be? I get you, you get me.”

“And why would I want you, Orihara?” he softens his words by pressing his thigh in between the other’s, leaning into it slightly.

Orihara snorts, but shifts against the desk, trying to relieve what Shiki can feel growing against his thigh. “Do I need to buy you dinner first?” Orihara’s trying for incredulous, but it comes out as breathy instead. 

“Hm, no. But you do need to work on your convincing.” Shiki pulls away, disentangling Orihara’s fingers from his chain and sitting back in his chair. “I look forward to whatever information could possibly be worth six grand.”

 

The file that Orihara passes to him next time he slides into the car is  _ easily  _ worth seven thousand. More.

It’s priceless.

It goes far beyond what Shiki asked for. It’s not  _ just  _ who’s been skimming off the top of weapons shipments in Tokyo. It’s that and the importer that’s letting it happen. It’s very nearly a conspiracy case, implicating those at nearly every level of government in the city.

Orihara’s checking his nails in a careful study of disinterest. It might even have worked if he wasn’t constantly peering up from under his eyelashes to see how Shiki’s reacting.

Shiki, for his part, lets himself be impressed. 

Reward good behavior, and all that. 

“This is good work,” he says, and Orihara doesn’t quite stomp out the satisfaction in his eyes fast enough. 

“Of course it is. Nothing but quality, ne?”

Shiki lets his eyes travel up and down Orihara’s body, to met his eyes, sending him a lazy smile when he does. “Oh, I agree.”

Then the car stops.

“It’s been a pleasure, Orihara.”

“You really are holding out for dinner, aren’t you?”

Shiki shrugs.

He really should have expected the twenty pizza boxes blocking his door when he gets home. 

 

It’s two weeks later that Orihara seems to decide that he will not accept no for an answer.

He sits on the edge of Shiki’s desk, one leg dangling, the other braced on the chair. 

“How do I convince you to fuck me over the desk?”

“You could start by buying me dinner,” Shiki says dryly, even as he stands and hikes Orihara further up the desk.

“I  _ did,”  _ Orihara complains,”but you didn’t put out or anything.”

“Twenty pizzas?”

“I couldn’t find what yakuza eat online. Why, are they herbivores? Did you share with your co-workers? I hear you’ve been doing trust exercises lately.”

Of course he knows.

Shiki cuts off any further retort Orihara might have had by gripping his hair and kissing him, using his tongue to pry his lips open.

Orihara doesn’t quite seem to know what to do with the tongue in his mouth, and there’s far too many teeth, but he seems to fall into the the rhythm of it quickly enough, bringing his hands to grip Shiki’s shoulders.

It’s easy to tug Orihara’s head to the side, bite gently down his neck while Shiki’s thumbs massage the inside of his thighs.

“Didn’t peg you as the romancing type,” Orihara says, his head tilting. 

“I’m not,” Shiki says, taking the invitation Orihara offers. “You could try  _ asking.”  _

_ You could try being  _ honest.

“For what?” Orihara says, playing dumb. 

It’s not a good look on him.

“For what you want.”

“I think I did.”

“Then you won’t mind doing it again.”

Orihara is quiet.

Then, he heaves a sigh. “Would you mind terribly, if it’s not an inconvenience, fucking me over this desk?”

It’d probably be a bit much to ask for a ‘please.’

“Oh, of course.”

“Excellent.”

Orihara rummages around in a pocket and comes back with a shiny wrapper and a small bottle. The little  _ shit.  _

At least he’s helpful enough to lift his hips when Shiki slides his pants off, leaving them dangling on one ankle because to be frank, the floor is filthy. Never know what sort of disease you could pick up there.

Orihara really is very pretty, and he spreads his legs readily when Shiki runs his hand down his thigh. Down further.

“I don’t need—” Orihara starts as Shiki gently probes a finger around. Shiki raises an eyebrow because he really  _ does _ need. Quick fucks are fun and all until someone can’t sit for four weeks.

“Unless you’re somehow anatomically different than the rest of us, you do need,” Shiki says, popping the cap to the lube. “Porn doesn’t quite reflect reality, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I really don’t wat—”

Shiki slides a finger in, twisting as Orihara squirms.

A thousand little things seem to come together in a single moment of clarity.

_ Fuck’s sake. _

Orihara’s a  _ virgin. _

Shiki stomps down on the happy little possessive trill as soon as it rears its head, this is not the place for that.

Orihara is not the person for that.

But still, never would have thought _ Orihara _ would have made it this long without sex. He certainly seemed to have  _ intimated  _ enough.

Aren’t kids these days all about losing their virginity as soon as they can? Or is that Shiki’s generation? He can’t remember, pop culture is really more Akabayashi’s thing. 

But Orihara chose this and far be it for  _ Shiki _ to judge, lord knows what he was doing at Orihara’s age, before his mom set him straight.

But Christ, isn’t it just like Orihara to ask someone for their first time to be at their place of work?

So he adds more lube and spends more time simply teasing, running his other hand up and down Orihara’s thigh until he relaxes, carefully sliding in another finger. 

“What’s taking so long?”

Fucking virgins.

“Necessary things.”

Orihara tenses all over again with the second finger, and Shiki uses his thumb to rub into Orihara’s hip until he calms down. 

That is, until Shiki finds what he’s looking for. Orihara pauses. Looks rather confused, like he can’t quite figure out what happened. “Something you like, Orihara?”

Eyes snap back up and Orihara seems to remember that there’s someone else there. “Of course I do. Why else would have suggested it?”

Shiki only snorts, pulling his hand free and popping his fly. “I’m sure I don’t know.” 

It’s good that Orihara thought to bring a condom, at least he’s not totally disconnected from reality.

Shiki hoists one of Orihara’s legs over his shoulder, pressing against Orihara gently, inside slowly. 

Orihara’s trying to school his face into something blank, but he’s failing miserably. So Shiki stops. Waits. Uses his free hand to wander under Orihara’s shirt, around his ribs until Orihara is frowning at him with impatience again. “Do you always go so painfully slow or am I just special?”

He’s just special. Shiki thought he ran out of the patience to deal with virgins long, long ago. But, he’s been wrong before. 

So Shiki slams in to watch Orihara scramble for a hold, settling at the elbow of Shiki’s sleeves. “There’s something to be said for taking your time.”

“Sure,” Orihara agrees, once he’s gotten his breath. “But not too long. You’re getting on in years, ne?”

Little  _ shit.  _

“Some of us have the stamina to enjoy ourselves for longer,” Shiki says, pulling out slowly, so slowly. Then slamming back in so Orihara slides an inch over the desk. Orihara’s hands fist, clenching into his arms, his thigh tenses and relaxes.

So Shiki does it again. 

The third time, Orihara looks up at him through slightly dazed eyes, moving his hands from Shiki’s elbows to his shoulders, clawing at the fabric for purchase. 

The fourth time, Orihara’s back arches off the table as he moans, eyes fluttering as he comes.

Definitely a virgin.

Or ex-virgin, he supposes. 

But at least Orihara’s finally relaxed enough that it’s easy for Shiki to move, thrusting in faster and shorter than he had before. 

Orihara moves one of his hands to bite down on his thumb, but nothing can hide the way he’s twisting and his fingers are clenching.

Figures Orihara would be into that. 

Shiki can feel it building in the base of his spine, thrusts in one more time before he’s coming.

Huh. He didn’t realize how tense he was until he wasn’t, feels like his shoulders can finally relax.

He takes longer than necessary to tie the condom off and pretending to look for a trashcan, get himself put back together. 

He’ll have to throw the condom away outside later before Kine, or God forbid,  _ Akabayashi _ sees it.

But it gives Orihara time to collect himself.

Sure enough, Orihara’s dressed and leaning back against the desk when he turns back, frowning down at the mess on his shirt.

“It’s best to rinse that out with cold water.”

Orihara lifts an eyebrow. “I’m sure you have lots of experience with that, ne?”

“And I’m sure you don’t.”

Orihara gives him a suspicious look and Shiki smiles at him, one he’s borrowed from Akabayashi that says  _ you can’t fool me, I know all. _

“So, how was your first time?”

Orihara shoots him a dirty look. Opens his mouth to deny it, then seems to change his mind. “Can’t say for sure, but it felt sub-par. Make it up to me next time, ne?”

And he leaves with a wink and a smirk, coat closed around his soiled shirt.

_ That little shit.  _

 

He remembers when peace used to be a part of his vocabulary. 

In a hazy way. Heavily tinted with nostalgia.

“Shiki,” Orihara says brightly, pulling out a chair across the table and plopping down. “What a coincidence to see you here, ne?”

Not really. It’s one of the few restaurants within a few blocks of the gallery that sells something semi-decent.

But it’s also four in the morning on a Tuesday.

Wednesday.

Whatever.

“What has you out so late?”

Orihara waves his hand idly. “Oh, you know. It’s part of the college experience. Stay up all night, slog through the next day.”

“I thought studying was supposed to be an essential part of the all-nighter.”

“I suppose,” Orihara sounds dismissive. “Maybe, if you’re not terribly bright.”

“Glad to see our education system is challenging and churning out the next generation of critical thinkers.”

Orihara laughs, a bright sound. “Oh, they’re exactly as stupid as the generation before, don’t worry. No better, no worse.”

“Well, I’m reassured. Our country is in excellent hands.”

“If it was, organizations like yours wouldn’t exist, ne? People wouldn’t fall through the cracks.”

“Is that the government or society’s fault?”

Orihara shrugs. “One is the product of the other, isn’t is? Or, it’s more like two snakes forever eating their tails. One influences the other, which influences the other, which influences the other. Ah, but politics are boring. What are you doing out so late?”

Shiki gestures at his bowl, “eating.”

“Long night of raids on enemy soil?”

“Better, paperwork.”

“Sounds like a chore,” Orihara props his chin on his hands. “I’m sure I could find something more entertaining for you at my place.”

 

Orihara’s apartment is, to put it nicely, a dump.

A small, spartan dump, but a dump nonetheless. 

“That eager to move out of mom and dad’s, huh?”

“Something like that,” Orihara says, already attacking the buttons on Shiki’s shirt.

He stops only long enough for Shiki to tug his shirt off before he’s back at it, shoving Shiki’s shirt off his shoulders. 

Where he abruptly gets distracted.

“Is that a  _ dragon?”  _ Orihara says with all the delight of a child, running fingers up and over Shiki’s shoulder. 

Probably. Shiki really can’t crane his head that far to check.

“No, it’s a tattoo.”

But Orihara’s not listening. “Spider lilies!” fingers chase the trail of flowers down until they’re obstructed by pants.

So Orihara makes quick work of them, fingers nimble and fast, before he’s following the line down to Shiki’s thigh.

Clearly, Shiki’s going to have to be the one to keep everyone on task here.

“Come on, Orihara,” Shiki says, tugging an arm so that Orihara follows him the five whole steps to his tiny bed. 

“Why spider lilies? What’s with the camilla on the left side of your chest? Do you get to choose the design?”

“Lube?”

Orihara pulls something out from under the mattress, but goes back to Shiki’s tattoos almost immediately. 

They  _ start  _ with Orihara straddling Shiki’s legs while Shiki slides wet fingers into him, but about halfway through, Orihara apparently wants a better view of his back and flops his stomach across Shiki’s shoulder for a better vantage point, dragging Shiki’s arm with him for the world’s most interesting fireman’s carry. 

“Hey! Even your ass is tattoo’d, how deep does it go?”

Not nearly as deep as Shiki has his fingers in Orihara, that’s for damn sure.

Shiki turns so he can toss Orihara onto the mattress, which make a god-awful  _ screech  _ as it takes Orihara’s weight. 

“Deep enough,” Shiki says. “Got condoms?”

“Under the mattress. How deep is  _ deep enough?”  _

_ “ _ I…” you know what? He doesn’t remember. He remembers having it done, but it’s been years and it’s not like he takes the time to check his ass every day. 

Shiki reaches under the mattress to pull out a string of foil packets. 

“If you’re good, I’ll let you check later.”

“Promise?” Orihara says with a smirk, spreading his thighs wide to accommodate Shiki. 

Shiki grabs a leg, flipping Orihara onto his side with a startled noise and hoisting a pale leg over his shoulder. 

“You’re surprisingly flexible,” Shiki says, pressing Orihara’s leg further back, just to see how far it will go.  

“Thanks,” Orihara says drily. “ _ I  _ can’t play with your tattoos, but feel free to— _ hah.” _

Shiki pushes in with no warning, all at once. 

Orihara uses a free hand to claw at the sheets. 

“You good there?”

“Peachy,” Orihara pants. 

“Excellent.”

Orihara is tight and warm, and it’s hard for Shiki to stay still. 

So he braces a hand on Orihara’s thigh to keep him in place, and pulls out almost entirely before slamming back in.

Orihara lets out a soft  _ hah,  _ hand fisted in the sheets, but he peers back at Shiki with eyes half hidden under long lashes. 

Shiki does it again, faster, until Orihara’s eyes are entirely closed, mouth slightly open, his stomach muscles twitching. From here, he can even see where he disappears into Orihara, sliding in and out.

It’s quite the view. 

Shiki can feel it building in the pit of his stomach, even before Orihara’s hand snakes down to stroke himself, short strokes in time with Shiki’s thrusts. 

Somehow, Orihara manages to come before Shiki does. 

He’s a sight to be seen, control gone from his face, muscles tensing and relaxing under unmarked skin, fingers of one hand twisting in the sheets. 

He’s beautiful. 

The way he grows tighter around Shiki might contribute, but he’s long gone before that. 

Luckily for him the trashcan is a quick toss away. Everything is, really.

While he’s turned away, strong legs clamp around his waist, pulling him down and in towards Orihara.

He braces to catch himself over Orihara’s shoulder, but a hand clamps around his wrist and hips shove into his and  _ Shiki’s  _ the one blinking up at Orihara’s shit eating grin. 

“Was I good enough?”

What-?

Oh.

“I suppose.”

Orihara looks  _ thrilled  _ and it’s very concerning. 

“Roll over,” Orihara sings. Shiki does, but he’d like to log his complaints now to whoever’s listening.a

He can feel Orihara resettling his weight lower down, fingers trailing from Shiki’s lower back, down.

There’s cool fingers on his ass and then—

“The  _ fuck _ you doing?”

“Not that deep.” Orihara sounds disappointed.

“Of course not. They don’t tattoo assholes.”

“Well, actually—”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Boo,” Orihara sounds amused. “Live a little, ne?”

“I live plenty, thanks.”

There’s a loud thump from the wall to the left. “ _ Keep it down in there.” _

“Nice place you got, Orihara.”

“What can I say? I’m never lonely.”

“ _ I said shut the _ fuck  _ up.” _

 

And like that, they’re sleeping together.

Orihara saunters into his office with a cocksure smile and a red folder into his hands. 

“I have the information you wanted,” he says, throwing the file onto Shiki’s desk.

“We have a meeting set for tomorrow. Couldn’t it have waited?”

“This is rather time sensitive.” 

Shiki nods, like he understands. 

He doesn’t. He has no idea how a retroactive report on one of the smaller banks is in anyway time-sensitive.

“Sure. Take off your pants and lay on the couch.”

Orihara blinks at him and his smirk stutters.

Once. 

Twice.

But his smirk returns with interest and he’s reaching for his belt buckle, peering under his eyelashes at Shiki like it’s some sort of seduction, settling on the couch like his scrawny ass is the best thing Shiki’s ever seen.

Shiki just grabs what he needs out of his desk, hidden beneath post-it’s and a stapler. What a life he leads, that he’s started hiding lube in convenient places, and settles behind Orihara, between his legs. 

Turns out, he didn’t need to. Shit came here  _ expecting  _ to get laid and Shiki’s fingers slide in without resistance.

“Fast learner.”

Shiki decides that he’s flattered that Orihara is so excited and not irritated that he’s apparently  _ that  _ easy. So Shiki shrugs and slides on the condom and slides into Izaya, meeting as much resistance as he expected to.

And then less, as Orihara shifts to his hands to rock back into it. 

Shiki braces a hand on Orihara’s hip, fingers digging in hard, and sets a rhythm, Orihara shoving back against him in agreement. 

He’s not a jackass, so he reaches around and grips Orihara with his freehand, yanking roughly in time.

It doesn’t last long. 

Orihara’s shuttering under him within minutes, because the young have all the vitality and none of the stamina, and it’s been long enough for Shiki that he’s following soon after. 

In the time it takes Shiki to toss the condom, Orihara has his pants most of the way up, looking far more presentable that someone that just got fucked should look. 

“I’d like to discuss some of things in the file, if you have a moment,” Orihara’s saying, buckling his belt. “There’s a larger context to some of them that I couldn’t put on paper.”

“Sure,” Shiki says, gesturing for Orihara to sit in one of the chairs.

Orihara politely declines. 

 

“I’ve gotten you a gift,” Akabayashi says one day in December. “For Christmas in light of our closer working relationship.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Shiki says, flat. It’s wrapped, but in what looks like yesterday’s newspaper and it’s roughly the size of a book. 

It  _ is _ a book. 

“ _ Lolita,  _ huh? Is it a personal favorite of yours?” 

Akabayashi smiles. “Not particularly, but Kine and I thought it might be of personal interest to you.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

Akabayashi taps his cane against the floor. “Because of your budding interest in Russian literature, of course.”

“I wasn’t aware I had a budding interest in Russian literature.”

“Ah,” Akabayashi says, smiling. “But Russian is the language of love.”

“Is it now?”

“I hear Orihara's fluent. Maybe you can get him to teach you.”

Shiki stares at him. There's no way he knows.

Akabayashi stares back, smiling at him like a shark that smells blood.

Ah, hell. He knows.

Akabayashi laughs first, the tension shattering like glass and leaving just as many sharp edges. He slaps Shiki on the back, hard enough to hurt. “Merry Christmas.”

 

Two raids are conducted on Awakusu-kai gambling parlors in west Ikebukuro. Which isn’t terribly unusual. Occasionally the police get restless and feel the need to remind the public that they exist and that they’re somewhat responsible for the peace in the area.

What’s problematic is what they’ve found.

Akabayashi looks ready to kill.

“We don’t deal drugs,” he says coldly to Shiki, smile frigid, cane in one hand.

“We don’t,” Shiki agrees, “but someone was.”

“They’re your men,” Akabayashi reminds him, smile still in place.

“I know. I’m looking into it.”

Well. Kazamoto is. Man has a talent for sniffing things out. Shiki might command respect, but Kazamoto commands  _ fear  _ and that’s far more useful for dragging things into the light.

“And what have you found?”

Nothing. No one seems to know  _ anything. _

That in itself is telling.

That means it’s a select group running the operation. There’s no great influx of funds, meaning that it’s an outside group using Awakusu locations simply as storage or that someone inside is pocketing the profits. 

Either way, it’s not something being sanctioned by the executives and that means he has free reign to crack down.

“It’s a select group,” Shiki tells him. “There’s one man who runs both parlors where drugs have been found, but I’ve sent men out to search the others just to be sure.”

Akabayashi looks satisfied.

“Let me know when you’ve found who’s responsible.”

“Of course.”

 

They do find who’s responsible, in a way.

Kazamoto comes and tells him in person. 

“It’s definitely Ko,” Kazamoto tells him, and Shiki can see the darkness caked under his fingernails and splatters on his sleeves. “Some of the employees that run the tables have seen him distributing.” Kazamoto cocks his head to the side. “Should I deal with him or did you want to?”

“Akabayashi wanted to.”

Kazamoto shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

 

Ko walks in as smooth and cocksure as could be. He’s missing an entire pinky, but Shiki doesn’t know the stories behind the missing knuckles. 

Akabayashi cracks Ko in about seven seconds flat. It’s impressive.

Shiki’d heard that Akabayashi ripped out his own eye, but this just might be the first time he believes it. 

“It’s not that,” Ko babbles. “It’s just something that some college kids cooked up. Pretty harmless, really.”

“The police reported it to be pure, medical grade methanphetamine. Speed. Nothing new or harmless about it.”

“That’s not what the kid said,” Ko protests. 

“What was the name of the kid?” Akabayashi says, circling closer.

“Nakura.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Around five foot. Black hair.”

Wow. Just about every male in Japan.

Shiki cuffs Ko around the back of the head. “Distinguishing characteristics. What color were his eyes?”

“Red.”

Akabayashi perks up, eye glittering behind his sunglasses.

“Did he wear anything interesting?”

“Yeah. He had this coat. I dunno. It was covered in fur.”

Well  _ fuck.  _

“He’s all yours, Akabayashi,” Shiki says, making to leave the room. “See if you can find where he’s put the money, while you’re at it.”

Shiki doesn’t expect to see Ko again.

 

“You can’t let him get away with this,” Akabayashi says, taking a deep drag off his cigarette. He’s got a hard look in his eyes.

“I don’t intend to.”

“I mean Orihara.”

The thing is, Shiki’s not entirely sure Orihara’s done anything  _ wrong.  _ He’s just provided a drug, it’s Ko that went against policy to deal it.

Sure, Orihara  _ knew  _ they generally didn’t, but he’s not the one that can be held accountable. 

Kazamoto traipses back into the room. He doesn’t usually spend his time here, prefers the air conditioned rooms of the main office. Personally, Shiki’s glad. Not that any of them are pretty, and Shiki doesn’t consider himself vain, but Kazamoto’s actually hard to look at. 

Occasionally, Kazamoto has dark spots that decorate the sleeves of his coat after dealing with clients. Shiki doesn’t approve of treating guests that way, but Kazamoto’s made it clear he couldn’t give a shit about what Shiki thinks of things.

“I looked further into your police raids,” he tells Shiki. “It’s odd that they’d hit up two of ours in the same week. It’s not random.”

Of course it’s not.

“I asked one of the moles we have in the department. He said that there was an anonymous tip the other day.”

“Aren’t they supposed to call us with that sort of thing?”

Kazamoto shrugs. “Didn’t think it was important, apparently. The department’s got a new contact, very hush-hush. Apparently he’s some sort of genius.”

“Did you manage to get a name?”

“No, I’m stupid and bad at my job.  _ Yes _ , I got a name.”

“Care to share?”

“It’s Orihara.” Kazamoto reaches into his jacket pocket, “I’ve even got a picture.”

Shiki’s braced for pale skin and dark hair and red eyes. 

So it throws him for a loop when he’s looking at the face of a middle-aged man, features sharp with stress and color peeking under the cuffs of a black button down. 

“One of our own.”

If Shiki’s shoulders lose some of their tension, then that’s no one’s business but his.

 

“Didn’t think drug dealing was your thing,” Shiki says as he flips through one of Orihara’s file folders. Shit, how much paper does he go through in a year?

“It’s not,” Orihara looks at him critically. “Unless you want it to be?”

“It’s interesting, then,” Shiki says, “that we have reports of a man that fits your description selling speed to some of our parlors.”

Orihara smiles, but it’s cold and calculating. “Oh?”

“Better be careful,” Shiki says. “Akabayashi’s out for blood.”

“Hm. Why do you think it was me, if I may ask?”

“Hoping to brush up on your subterfuge?”

“Something like that.”

“Your coat is pretty distinctive, you know.” Shiki shakes his head. “Did you really think you could throw us off with a fake name?”

Orihara taps his fingers on the table before standing abruptly. “Terribly sorry, I have some errands to run.” He’s walking crisply to the door, pulling out a phone as he goes.

 

Kazamoto hangs around the art gallery even after the supply of speed abruptly stops. 

Probably because he and Akabayashi get along like a house on fire. 

Destructively, one of them’s trying to win, and everyone else looks on in horror.

Except for Aozaki. 

Akabayashi’s grin is stretched past the point of manic to what looks painful and Kazamoto’s teeth are clenched so hard they look a second from shattering.

“I’m didn’t  _ say  _ you were an idiot, I just said that only an idiot could—”

“Well let me be direct then,” Akabayashi says, “I think you should crawl back into whatever bog hole spat out your ugly ass. Ruri is a goddess among men.”

“Maybe it’s just a part of your pedo—”

“Is there a reason you’re still here, Kazamoto?” Shiki says. Akabayashi is fair game, but he better back the hell off from Ruri.

“There’s been a new informant hanging around the Yachi-gumi headquarters.”

Yachi-gumi…the interlopers from Okinawa. That’s right.

“I’ve got a picture of him here. I hear he’s one of yours, Shiki.” Kazamoto hands over his phone, and sure enough, there’s Orihara, waltzing out of an unmarked office building. 

Well, _ fuck. _

There’s no telling what sort of information Orihara could be selling there. 

Except. 

Except for how the attacks on Awakusu territory grow stronger, better.

Is it Orihara?

“It’s Orihara,” Akabayashi says. 

“How do we know?”

“Because we have moles in the Yachi-gumi and they told me, christ.”

“And you didn’t tell me, why?”

“I’m telling you know, aren’t I?”

Jackass.

  
  


Now he has to do something about it.

“Oh, one more thing,” Shiki says as Orihara stands to leave, after delivering his latest deceptively cheery file folder. Orihara pauses at the door. “I think I’ve mentioned once or twice how important loyalty is in this business, right?”

“I think you’ve said it once or twice, yes.”

“Then shocking how it doesn’t quite seem to resonate with you.”

Akabayashi slips in the door behind Orihara, holding a white cloth and a knife, presenting both to Orihara with a smile.

“You’ve seen it done, I’m sure I don’t need to explain.”

Orihara gives him a lopsided smile. “You’re not serious are you?” Shiki looks back at him. Akabayashi looks at him, and Orihara’s smile dies a slow death. “You are.”

“You were warned.”

Orihara’s fast, Shiki will give him that. But Akabayashi’s fast too, has the advantage of several years of experience. The knife clatters to the floor and Orihara’s rubbing his wrist.

Akabayashi picks the knife back up from the floor and hands it to Orihara.

Shiki helpfully spread the cloth on the surface of his desk.

“Usually we ask for the first knuckle off the left hand, but we’ll make an exception since you’re left handed.”

Orihara gapes at him, but after a moment sets his hand on the white cloth. 

He seems to regain some of his composure once he has though, raising the knife.

Orihara pauses.

Waits.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

He seems to understand then that no one is going to stop him. That they really do expect him to bring the knife down.

And he  _ smiles.  _ Fondly, like one might at a small child.

The knife falls with a sharp crack, but Orihara doesn’t cry out.

Shiki lifts Orihara’s hand. 

There’s going to be a bruise from where the dull knife hit the knuckle, but it’s not completely broken.

Shiki fixes that for him, and this time, Orihara does cry out, trying to jerk his hand back reflectively.

“We  _ do  _ expect loyalty from those in our circle,” Shiki says. “It’s not lip service.”

Akabayashi slips back out the door, evidently satisfied that justice has been meted. 

He’s not sure pain alone is something Orihara understands. It’s a door. It opens the way for understanding, but you actually have to walk through it. 

“Do you understand, Orihara? Actions have consequences.” Shiki uses a paperclip from his desk to splint Orihara’s finger, binding it carefully with medical tape. 

Orihara is silent.

“I asked you a question,” Shiki says mildly. 

“Yes.”

“There are boundaries we expect you to stay inside. Do you understand why your actions have these consequences?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are the reasons?”

“What am I, a child?” Orihara spits.

“No. You simply act like one.” Shiki checks to make sure the splint is secure. “Answer my question.”

“Because I attempted to betray the Awakusu-kai.”

“And why is that not acceptable?”

“Because they expect loyalty from me.”

“Orihara. Look at me.” He waits until Orihara does, holds him by the chin and looks him dead in the eye. “This is a game with  _ lives  _ on the line. This is a game with  _ consequences.  _ I need to know what my pieces can  _ do.  _ I need to know that I can  _ trust  _ them. You could be a  _ very _ valuable piece, Orihara, or you could be a worthless one. And I don’t keep worthless pieces on the board. Do you understand?”

“I understand that was a tortured metaphor,” Orihara says, but he’s got a tension between his eyebrows that says he’s thinking. Considering. Weighing. 

Shiki lets his chin go. This is as close to understanding that Orihara can get at the moment.

“What, not going to kiss it better?” Orihara say, extending his hand out like a dare.

Shiki grabs it, kissing the center of Orihara’s palm, brushing a finger against the broken finger. 

  
  


The next time Shiki sees Orihara, his pinky is in a small cast, far more professionally done than anything Shiki could have done. 

Orihara doesn’t say anything about it, just shuffles the files he holds, the paper making a strange click against the hard shell. 

“As far as I can tell, he really did spend all his money at the host club, I’m just not sure the whether it’s a money laundering operation or not.”

“Why not?”

“Amazingly, they won’t simply hand over their books to me. This is what I can tell from what kinds of money goes to the organization they’re affiliated with. Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Orihara stands from his chair and rounds the desk, straddling Shiki’s lap.

A suspicion blossoms in the back of Shiki’s mind.

“You know, this isn’t part of your business arrangement with the Awakusu.”

Orihara grinds down, bringing his hands to Shiki’s shoulders for leverage.

“I would hope not.”

“I’m not petty enough to cut off a source of business if this stops.”

Orihara snorts. “An ethical yakuza. Adorable.”

But he doesn’t stop, just tucks his face into Shiki’s neck, warm breath fanning slowly as his hips move in smooth circles.

Shiki’s hands move down to Orihara’s ass, squeezing when they get there. 

“Oh, fuck,” Orihara says, after a minute.

Shiki freezes, but tries to keep his voice steady. “What?”

“I forgot to take my pants off. Now I’m going to have to get off.”

“Your life is so hard.”

Orihara grinds down, and Shiki’s erection isn’t even subtle anymore. “So are you.”

“Bad puns aren’t sexy.”

Orihara climbs off Shiki’s lap, hands tugging at his fly. “And yet here I am, getting laid.”

“You don’t  _ usually  _ spout bad puns, just bad philosophy.”

“Is that a challenge?” Orihara says, climbing back onto Shiki’s lap, sans pants, his cock brushing Shiki’s shirt.

Shiki puts his hands on Orihara’s bare hips, running his thumbs over the divots of his hip bones.

“No.”

“What do the yakuza and rim jobs have in common?” Orihara says blithely, shit eating grin firmly on his face. 

“They both require kissing ass?”

Orihara laughs. “I was gonna say a slip of the tongue lands you in deep shit, but that’s just as accurate, ne?”

Suddenly, Shiki’s acutely aware of the weight of Izaya’s cast on his shoulder.

Oh, he doesn’t regret it. Orihara needed to be put in line and anything that Shiki came up with would be less that what someone higher up could do.

More that there’s a change in their dynamic somewhere. Or, rather, that’s there’s  _ not  _ and it’s somewhat telling.

“I suppose.”

Orihara reaches behind himself, Shiki runs his hands over Orihara’s hips to his ribs, flicks at nipples there.

Orihara makes a hum in the back of his throat, so Shiki hikes his shirt up higher so he can get at them with his mouth instead. He draws lazy circles with his tongue, occasionally scraping with his teeth to appreciative moans from Orihara.

But soon enough, Orihara smacks his head away, reaching down for Shiki’s fly with one hand still glistening with lube.

So Shiki undoes his pants before Orihara can  _ think  _ of touching his nice white clothes with that stain liquid. 

Orihara pulls him out, resettling himself to line up.

“Condom?”

“I’m clean,” Orihara says, looking unconcerned. “And so are you.”

“It’s not kind to go looking into other’s medical records, you know.”

“Maybe not,” Orihara agrees, lowering so that Shiki can feel himself pushing past a ring of muscle, further in.

Orihara lowers himself slowly, thighs straining.

Too slowly.

Shiki thrusts his hips up.

And Orihara  _ bites  _ him, a sharp pain. 

“Behave yourself,” Orihara says, lowering completely to sit on Shiki’s lap, shifting. 

Orihara sets a leisurely pace, taking his time while Shiki’s hands get bored and roam and touch and stroke whatever skin they can reach, back stomach, thighs. And with wrist at a particularly awkward angle, dick. 

“I thought I said to behave,” Orihara says, amused.

“I am,” Shiki says, trying his absolute best to trap Orihara’s prostate between his fingers and his dick. He must succeed, because Orihara moans and move his hand away, settling it on his shaft instead.

“You’re _ not _ .”

“What’s not behaving then?” Shiki says, coming to rest his face on Orihara’s neck just below his ear. “Am I allowed to participate, or am I only allowed to stretch you open?” Shiki twists his hand around Orihara to punctuate. 

“No, you’re allowed more than that.”

“Am I allowed to come in you, Orihara?” That gets some sort of reaction, a swallow. Oh. Interesting. “Do you want that?”

Orihara doesn’t say anything.

“I think you do. I think you planned this.”

Because….because why? Because going bareback implies a sense of exclusivity? Because it implies a sort of intimacy?

Or because it’s a sort of possessive behavior?

Of course Orihara would think the only way to reassure someone you still like them is to do the closest equivalent to piss on them you can socially do.

So Shiki does him one better, biting at the skin under one of the collarbones, sucking until it’s purple. 

Is it showing his hand a little?

Maybe. 

Orihara comes around him, twitching and moaning and laying on his lap like a dead weight. 

“Come on,” Shiki says. Orihara continues to do nothing.

Alright. 

Shiki heaves from under Orihara’s ass to lay him across the desk, fucking into him that way. Orihara just gives him a satisfied grin. 

He’s still doing it even as Shiki comes, pulling out with a weird squelching sound, stretching like he’s gotten his way, even as there’s a trickle of white leaking out of his ass.

Which Shiki is  _ not  _ into because he’s not possessive.

At all.

Even he doesn’t believe himself.

Even when Orihara’s fingers wander down to explore themselves, a look of interest on his face as his fingers disappear into his body.

“Not what I expected,” Orihara says, what sounds like mostly to himself, before hopping off the desk and looking for his pants, but wearing that stupid smirk.

He’s still wearing it even as he leaves Shiki’s office, whistling and one hand tapping where Shiki knows a spectacular hickey is blooming.

He’s not avoiding Shiki like he would have expected, he’s seeking him out, almost seems  _ more  _ attached to their arrangement than before Shiki exercised disclip—

Oh.

_ Daddy issues.  _

Chances are Orihara doesn’t even  _ know,  _ isn’t quite aware enough that he sees Shiki as a legitimate authority figure in his life. 

Well.

At least it means that he’s accepted the punishment as well-deserved.

He didn’t see keeping Orihara from being a danger to himself going quite like this, but he can probably handle it.

Who the hell is he kidding?

He’s  _ screwed. _

  
  


One day, Orihara presents him with a business card on thick, white paper.

_ Orihara Izaya,  _ it reads,  _ Financial Advisor. _

“Changing careers already? Aren’t you a little young for a midlife crisis?”

“Hm, not really. I might have already reached mid-life, ne? But don’t you fret, I’m not leaving you high and dry, it’s just my cover.”

“You know, usually you only use those for legal paperwork. It’s not something you have to advertise to those you work with.”

“Really? So the painting of the clowns looking deeply into each other’s eyes is just there for your own personal amusement?”

“Why, are you interested? I’ll sell it to you for seven hundred.”

“That seems a bit much.”

“Free. You can just have it. Take it.”

Orihara laughs. “I think I should charge you for taking it off your hands.”

“Don’t push it.”

 

As far as he can tell, Orihara’s given up playing with the Awakusu-kai in favor of toying with the local color gangs.

“I can’t even keep track of them anymore,” Akabayashi complains. “So many little brats running around playing god. What happened to the days where they just marched around and beat each other up after school?”

“Ah, the good old days,” Shiki says, flipping a page in the newspaper. 

“It’s no different from when we were kids,” Aozaki argues. “Just with, ah, more of those phone things. Have you heard they play audio files now?”

That’s why they keep Aozaki around. Hard to feel old when you at least know how to operate modern technology.

 

“Having fun playing god with the high schoolers, Orihara?”

“Tons,” Orihara says brightly, swinging his legs as he sits at the edge of Shiki’s desk. “They’re all so  _ mean. _ One of the main leaders is in middle school.  _ Middle school.” _

“Kids these days,” Shiki says dryly. 

“I know,” Orihara says without a trace of self-awareness. “When I was in middle school, I was attending clubs and hanging around with friends.”

Shiki has a hard time believing that. 

“Now they're running around with girlfriends and kidnapping each other and starting fights and utilizing basic torture techniques. Scary.”

Orihara’s smiling brightly. 

“There's even one using the internet to his full advantage.”

“How's that?”

“It's a sort of social experiment, really. How people will associate an identity with the smallest thing. They've run experiments on it, you know. You can separate people arbitrarily and they'll attach to their new identity like they're born to it. What an  _ application  _ of modern technology. What a  _ concept.” _

Orihara’s incandescent when he smiles. Shiki can’t decide if talking about taking over the Tokyo area makes him  _ more  _ attractive—

Who’s he kidding?

  
  


Orihara’s new apartment looks like a spread from an interior design magazine, all dark colors and minimalism and sharp corners and a feeling of being unlived in and all for show. The only thing saving it from feeling like a concrete bunker are the floor to ceiling windows that make up an entire wall, a slice of Tokyo stretching as far as the eye can see. 

It’s an impressive view, easy to see how Orihara thinks of himself as god when he comes home to this.

“Well, Shiki, what a surprise,” Orihara says, spinning in an office chair behind his desk like he’s five. 

“It shouldn’t be,” Shiki says, settling on one of the chairs across from Orihara. It’s surprisingly comfortable given that it looks like a minimalist bear trap. “I have an appointment.”

“Can’t let me have my fun, can you?” Orihara says, getting up from his chair and walking over to one of the massive shelves, crammed with file folder upon file folder, skimming his fingers along until he stops at one and bends over. 

If that’s not an invitation, Shiki’s a blind man.

He walks over, not particularly silently, and runs his hand over Orihara’s ass, squeezing.

It’s a very nice ass. Mostly muscle, like the rest of Orihara is, and very nicely shaped. 

Orihara looks over his shoulder with a smirk and grabs a file. It’s all for show, Shiki can tell because it’s the wrong color for what he’s here for, but he’ll let Orihara have that. 

“No patience,” Orihara chides, pushing into his hand, then back against Shiki himself, grinding into Shiki.

Shiki settles his hands on Orihara’s hips, pulling him close so there’s no space between them.

Orihara tips his neck to the side, and Shiki take it for the invitation it is, mouthing lightly underneath Orihara’s ear before biting down, just a scrape of teeth.

One hand leaves Orihara’s hip, wandering down to Orihara’s crotch were it presses lightly, outlining the shape of a rapidly hardening cock before sliding up under the hemline of Orihara’s shirt.

“So that’s how it’s going to be today, ne?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Shiki lies, skimming up a smooth stomach to count ribs, using fingernails to lightly scrape as he goes. Orihara shivers under his fingertips, a full body motion. He sets that hand to lightly play with Orihara’s chest as his other hand runs delicately right over Orihara’s waist band, occasionally dragging fingertips down over rough denim to lightly trace Orihara’s cock through his jeans.

Hands come up to unfasten jeans, but Shiki bats them away. Orihara huffs, but his head lolls back to rest on Shiki’s shoulder.

Shiki moves the hand on Orihara’s chest to grasp Orihara’s neck to hold him in place. He can feel Orihara’s pulse under his fingers, thundering.

It’s truly a shame that he can’t quite trust Orihara enough to bring him back to his own apartment. He’d be  _ so _ pretty trussed up in red. 

He pops the button on Orihara’s jeans, pulling him out of his pants, sliding his hand up and down. He presses his thumb into the tip and can feel Orihara swallow against the palm of his hand.

Shiki alternates long pulls with short, hard ones, until Orihara comes over his hand.

He doesn’t feel bad about wiping it on Orihara’s shirt to his enraged squeaks, because he peels it off immediately after, herding Orihara to one of his uncomfortable looking couches and helping him out of his pants.

Shiki pulls a naked Orihara on to his lap, settling Orihara’s legs on either side of his own so that Orihara sprawls open. Shame there’s no mirror. He’d like to see this.

Orihara’s gone rather boneless, using Shiki as his only support. That’s fine. Shiki runs his his fingers over the inside of Orihara’s thighs, one hand tracing up over to draw light patterns on his stomach, the other coming to cup his balls. Orihara moans, and it sounds a bit broken and reverberates through Shiki’s chest. 

“What was that? I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Fuck yo—” Shiki rolls one through his fingers and Orihara tries to curl in on himself, thighs twitching, but Shiki pins Orihara to his chest using his free hand.

“Did you want me to stop?”

“ _ No. _ ”

“Then what do you want, Orihara?”

Orihara squirms, the muscles under Shiki’s hands gliding under pale skin. “You know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Shiki says, and even he can hear the smirk in his voice, but he doesn’t care. One finger traces circles on Orihara’s inner thigh.

“You can’t figure it out?” Orihara says, being difficult even now. 

“Maybe.” Shiki dances his fingers closer, but not close enough to Orihara’s cock. “But I’d like to hear you say it.”

“Just. Just fuck me. Do you need me to tell you how to do it to?” 

“I’m sure I can figure that much out.”

Orihara plunges his hand between the couch cushions and comes back with a knife, a bottle of lube, and a string of condoms. 

Shiki raises an eyebrow. “I’m not particularly into knives, informant.” 

Izaya rolls his eyes, but puts the knife back in between the cushions. “It’s for self-defense.”

“Ah,” Shiki says, taking the bottle of lube from him. “Always nice to have a bottle of lube around to defend yourself from—”

“Terribly horny old men, I know.”

Shiki flicks Orihara’s side, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much.

But he doesn’t seem to help his head falling back against Shiki’s shoulder, baring his neck as Shiki strokes a lubed finger against his entrance, the other hand scratching lines into the skin of his thighs.

Orihara’s hand comes up so he can bite into his thumb, choking back a groan. 

There’s pressure on the outside of Shiki’s legs as Orihara tries to close his as Shiki pushes a finger in, but relax as he pauses. 

Orihara’s cock starts to fill as Shiki pushes his finger in and out.

“Do you think you could come just from this?” Shiki wonders idly, and Orihara gives a helpless sort of giggle.

“I suppose anything’s possible.”

Another finger joins Shiki’s first, meeting slight resistance before yielding to insistent pressure.

“You mean you don’t  _ know?  _ You haven’t fucked yourself on your fingers, imagining it was me?” Orihara tenses as Shiki finds his prostate, hand clenching in the fabric of Shiki’s pants. “You haven’t opened yourself, spreading yourself wide?” Shiki crooks a finger, and Orihara’s cock gives a corresponding twitch. “I think you have.” Shiki pulls his fingers out, adding a third. “I think you imagine me fucking you open, stretching you slowly until you’re completely full of me, until you can feel nothing but me.”

A final crook of his fingers, and Orihara is coming apart, tensing around his fingers as he comes.

“I suppose that answers that,” Shiki says, and Orihara makes a noise of agreement. 

Shiki slides Orihara off his lap until he’s laying on the couch, settling between Orihara’s spread legs. 

Orihara blinks up at him, slow and lazy.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Shiki tells him, and Orihara nods, slow and lazy.

“’S about time.”

“No patience,” Shiki chides, unzipping his pants and rolling on a condom. He hikes a leg up over his shoulder and lines himself up, pressing in to a long sign from Orihara.

He fucks Orihara leisurely, with long strokes that have Orihara gasping quietly every time he bottoms out. 

It’s satisfying to come, sure, but not nearly as satisfying as the fucked-out look on Orihara’s face, the flush high on his cheeks and the glazed look in his eye.

He pulls out and chucks the condom in the nearest trash bin, buckling his pants. Orihara is still spread out on the couch, watching him. 

“So, about the information?”

Orihara blinks. Once. Twice. Three time.

“Oh.”

“Don’t bother, I can find it. You have the files organized by last name of person of interest, right?”

“Hm. Yeah. It’s a—”

“Purple folder. I’m sure I can find it.” Orihara continues to blink at him. “You need some help there, Orihara?”

“Give me a minute. I can’t feel my legs.”

Shiki sighs and walks over to the couch, putting one arm under Orihara’s back and using the other to gather his legs. “Your bedroom is upstairs, right?”

“Yes. But you’ll have to excuse me. I’m not sure I can go for a round three right now, though.”

“What are you on about? That was only round one.” Shiki hoists Orihara into the air. He’s heavier than he looks, but nothing Shiki can’t handle. “But I have other things to do today, you know.”

Orihara’s bedroom has the same unused perfection that the rest of the apartment has, down to the unwrinkled bedsheets. Shiki sets Orihara down on one side. 

“Gonna tuck me in? Sing me a lullaby? Read me a bed time story?” Orihara looks up at him from half-closed eyes, but he’s not being particularly flirtatious. Mostly, he looks sleepy and relaxed, splayed out on his bedsheets like this is something they do everyday. Like it’s something comfortable.

“There once was an informant that was incredibly irritating in every single way.”

“Hmh. Sounds like a great guy. What happened to him?”

“He was smothered with one of his own pillows.”

“Tragic.”

“Hm.”

Shiki walks back downstairs, grabbing his purple file. He whistles as he leaves.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh.
> 
> if an idea looks familiar, i probably stole it from varrix but what else is new
> 
> thanks to steph for beta'ing. ur input is appreciated at least 51% of the time.

Akabayashi is in a truly _foul_ mood.

Shiki doesn’t want to ask. Really, _really,_ doesn’t.

Aozaki tells him anyway.

“He’s mad that his favorite soap opera is gone,” Aozaki says, smiling now even though he’s currently wrestling with the fax machine. Shiki doesn’t have the heart to tell him they haven’t used that thing for years now.

“It’s not a _soap opera,”_ Akabayashi snaps. “And I’m not _mad,_ just disappointed.”

Sometimes, Shiki remembers that, as executives, Aozaki and Akabayashi really have no reason to be hanging around Shiki’s art gallery. They _should_ be at the main offices, far out of his hearing and accessible to other people. Like their subordinates.

“You’re mad,” Aozaki says, clinging to it like a dog with a bone. “You wanted the high schoolers to keep goin’ at it.”

“Not at all, I just think that with _police_ was a crappy way to end it.”

Shiki doesn’t want to know.

That’s a lie. He does, just not from Akabayashi.

“Hey, tell Orihara next time you see him that while I appreciate him cleaning up his messes, I think the police was a shitty way to end it.”

Orihara-? Oh. The local color gangs. So Orihara’s grown bored of his toys, huh? Driven them all to a thrilling conclusion? Orihara seems the type to completely destroy his things when done, probably tossed his matchbox cars into the flames when they failed to hold his interest any longer. He can probably poke it out of Orihara without much effort, boy loves to brag.

“Tell him yourself.”

“But you spend so much more time with him, I’d _hate_ to encroach on your territory like that.”

“Who is this ‘Orihara?’ I should’ve met someone whose name is thrown around all the time,” Aozaki says, giving up with the fax machine and coming to loom near Akabayashi.

“You have,” Akabayashi says, dry. “Remember? At our one-and-only biweekly please-don’t-betray-us Friday drinks?”

“Don’t remember.”

“It was a few years ago,” Akabayashi gives him a smirk, leaning back. “I’d be surprised if you could _think_ that far back.”

“Are you calling me _stupid?”_

“If the shoe _fits…”_

Ah, Mondays.

 

“What do you know about the Dollars?”

Orihara looks at him, cheek cradled in his hand. “The usual. Color gang without a color. Not very large. Interesting because it’s mostly internet based with no clear leader. I’m surprised you know about it, it’s not often you ask about what the kids are up to these days.”

“They’ve been on the news, now. It’s not exactly a local phenomena anymore.”

“Ah,” Orihara says, not looking up from where he’s doodling on a kid’s menu. “That explains some things.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing that really concerns you,” Orihara says, putting a mustache on his drawing.

“Are the Dollars the ones you were talking about awhile ago?”

Orihara looks up at that. “Perhaps. You’ll have to be more specific. I talk about a lot of things.”

“Something about someone using the internet to its full advantage, loyalty and all that.”

“I’m surprised you remember. Yes, that’s the Dollars.”

“So you’ve been watching them for a while.”

“You could say that.”

“So what’s your take?”

Orihara puts down his crayon. “In what way?”

“Well, Akabayashi thinks they’ll be a huge threat to the order and peace of Ikebukuro, Aozaki thinks it’s the latest fad and isn’t terribly dangerous. What do you think?”

“I think large groups of people are always dangerous,” Orihara says. “But one without loyalty or cohesion doubly so. Your group has that in _spades_ and you’re still staring down the possibility of a power struggle, ne?”

“You think there might be a power struggle? I thought you said there was no leader.”

“Oh, there isn’t. But there is a _founder._ But think about it. Membership in the Dollars is huge, and secret. There’s no identifying markers at all. That’s a massive, silent army in the wings. And since the Dollars don’t require any sort of color, you could conceivably be part of more than one gang at a time.”

“There are no moles in the Awakusu, are there?”

Izaya’s started to play with the sugar packets in the hold, spreading them around the table. “Oh, there are. Just, being a Dollar member isn’t _necessarily_ being a mole. It just means you have access to the forums.”

“That shouldn’t create too much of a problem.”

Orihara shakes his head. “Like you said, they made the news. The internet can influence actions, and what you have now is a 24/7 feed of information from people all over the city. No one who can be identified at a glance. So what do I think?” Orihara lets out a dreamy sigh, but his face. His face is stretched into a manic grin. “ _I_ think it’ll be exciting.”

Two plates clatter down, the waitress bustling away as soon as the porcelain hits the wood.

The food’s ridiculously greasy, the kind of stuff that clogs your artery if you look at it for too long.

“I think that’s more telling of its danger level than anything else.”

Orihara laughs.

 

An informant contacts them for their ‘expertise.’

Unlike Orihara, he doesn’t make a living from peddling information alone, he runs a talent agency. Incidentally, the one Hijiribe Ruri’s connected to. What a small world.

Yodogiri Jinnai wears traditional clothes and looks around fifty.

Maybe.

There’s something about his comfort in his own body and they way he moves that suggests he’s around fifty, but his face has an odd tightness and a discrepancy that Shiki can’t place.

He brings his secretary with him, a young women with an aura of icy disdain and the worst fashion sense Shiki’s seen this side of Orihara. She doesn’t talk much, but has an air of aggressive competency and constant vigilance. Shiki doubts anything goes unnoticed in the room, from the way the clock on the wall is seven seconds fast to the suspicious stain in the corner.

 _Shiki_ thinks Yodogiri is fine, he projects an air of quiet competence and groundedness that Shiki appreciates, but Akabayashi is visibly twitchy and agitated, lighting one cigarette off of another, lone eye constantly roving the room.

It sets off all sorts of warning bells, makes Shiki take another look. He still can’t see what Akabayashi sees, even with the advantage of another eye.

“So, what’s the job you wanted us for?”

“More of a request, really,” Yodogiri says, smile warm and grandfatherly. “I need someone, ah, _retrieved._ ”

“Well, we do specialize,” Akabayashi says, outright twirling his ridiculous cane. “Though it is easier if you actually tell us who it is.”

“You may have heard of them on the news,” Yodogiri gestures to his secretary and she pulls out a file folder. All informants are the same.

For a second, Shiki thinks, _that’s odd. It’s not a celebrity matter_ before he remembers manilla is the standard color and nobody uses Orihara’s crazy color scheme but him.

Inside are grainy stills with time-stamps, clearly pulled directly from CCTV.

And yet.

“Is this a joke?” Akabayashi says, mouth in a tense, unhappy line.

“Sadly, no. These are the only frames we have. I believe the media has dubbed them ‘Hollywood,’ for obvious reasons, I’m sure. It’s quite the scandal.”

That’s one way of putting it. One frame has what looks like a seaweed monster coming out of an upscale apartment, leaves dragging behind. The next is Godzilla in miniature. Another is a werewolf. They’re all like this, one outlandish costume after the next.

“The serial killer?” Shiki’s starting to feel the need to light up himself. There’s something off about all of this, something they’re not telling him.

“Yes.”

“Can we see pictures of the victims?”

Yodogiri shakes his head sadly. “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to get a copy of the police report.”

That.

That’s not right. Orihara usually has a police report in his hands within the hour, delivered personally or with the courier. Sometimes it’s not even a photocopy, but the actual thing, complete with hand-inked notes and coffee stains.

Something’s wrong.

“I see.”

Akabayashi snatches the file folder off the desk, standing abruptly. “We’ll pass it on to our colleague.”

“I look forward to working with you,” Yodogiri says, seemingly sensing that he’s excused and making his way leisurely to the door, tailed by his secretary. Akabayashi’s out a moment later.

Ah, well. Seems like Kazamoto’s thing anyway. He’s a suspicious enough bastard that he’ll find whatever reeks about this.

 

“What do you know of Yodogiri Jinnai?” Orihara pauses in pulling up his pants, but recovers quickly and fastens them.

“In a professional capacity or general rumors?”

“What’s the difference?”

Orihara smiles, but it’s not kind. “One will cost you.”

“I’d think you’d take any opportunity to besmirch your competition.”

“I’m not sure Yodogiri is exactly competition, per se. We generally run in different markets,” Orihara pulls his shirt on, bite marks disappearing under his collar. “Why, cheating on me with another informant? You’re supposed to hide affairs, you know.”

“You’ve never been our only informant, Orihara,” Shiki says, drumming his fingers. Which is true. They tend to go to Orihara for _specific_ matters, but general information gathering comes from the one hundred and one low-lifes scattered around town.

“Sure, sure. But what you usually use isn’t quite the same level of Yodogiri.”

“What do you mean?”

Orihara shrugs on his coat. “Rumor is that he has plastic surgery with the same frequency that most people change their socks. There are whispers that he’s been in the business for going on thirty years now. But I’m not so sure.”

That would explain why his face was at odds with the rest of him.

“Why not?”

“For one, there are only so many people in Tokyo willing to entirely reconstruct a face under the table, you know, that have any sort of talent. He hasn’t passed through most of their offices.”

“Maybe he’s just using one?”

“What’s the point of changing your face so often if one person knows what all of them look like?” Orihara shakes his head. “There isn’t one.”

“Maybe he’s got a trusted in-house?”

“Maybe.”

“Is that all you’ve got?”

“I’ve been a bit busy, lately. More interesting things going on than the competition, you know.” Orihara looks up at Shiki, “Unless he’s shoehorning in on my clients?”

Shiki shakes his head. “No, he came to us, actually.”

“Oh? What for?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Orihara smiles, quicksilver fast. “Always worth a shot, ne?”

 

The body count is higher than he expected.

Namely, it’s more than zero. It was supposed to be _easy._ Several experienced men against one, serial killer or no.

What’s worse is how the bodies came back. Not stabbed. Not shot.

_Ripped._

Some of the bodies can only be identified by the tattoos, if _barely_. Brutally murdered. Shiki’d suspect Heiwajima to be behind the whole thing if he hadn’t had eyewitness reports of Heiwajima fighting Hollywood in some god-forsaken park.

There’s a headache threatening behind his temples.

There’s a reason Yodogiri didn’t have the police reports.

He’s been played like an idiot.

He _does_ try to call Yodogiri before putting a hit on him, really. It’s not his fault the number is out of service.

“I’m _not_ calling you a weird nickname,” Aozaki says as he leaves his office. “You massive shit stain.”

Oh, excellent.

“I’ve never heard anyone call you ‘Red Devil,’” Kine says dubiously.

“No, really,” Akabayashi says, amused and calm. “That’s what they call me. Aozaki is the Blue Devil.”

How cute.

They match.

He'll ask Orihara. Maybe he'll know something.

Or spread it around and pretend like it's always been.

“I can’t get Yodogiri on the phone,” Shiki says to the room at large.

“Of course you can’t,” Akabayashi snorts. “He’s a shady bastard.”

“You’re a shady bastard,” Aozaki says helpfully.

He’s not wrong.

“He set us up, I’m putting out a hit.”

“You should send out an email,” Akabayashi says. “Make sure everyone’s on alert.”

Aozaki frowns. “That only works if you have everyone’s email.”

“That’s why we have company emails,” Akabayashi says slowly. “So you know it’s work related and you’re easy to reach.”

“Well, why didn’t _I_ get one?”

He’s going to leave this one to Akabayashi and makes a tactical retreat into his office.

 

The problem is, there’s still a serial killer at large in Ikebukuro that can rip grown men limb from limb.

Which really doesn’t look good for the Awakusu-kai if they let him run rampant through their portion of the city.

The courier might be able to take care of him. But before he can do that, he calls in Orihara.

“I need information on the serial killer Hollywood.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Orihara says, lolling on the couch. “She’s given it up for _love.”_

“Beg pardon?”

“Ah, it’s true. Idols aren’t supposed to pursue relationships, but I suppose we can forgive the circumstances, ne?”

“ _What_ are you on about, Orihara?”

“Hollywood, of course. The serial killer. Didn't you know?” Orihara looks over his shoulder and lights up with glee. “You don't.”

“Know what?”

“You have a cardboard cutout of a serial killer in your office.”

Cardboard cutout—

Oh.

“You're screwing with me.”

If Orihara was gleeful before, he’s downright _manic_ now.

“Yes, but I’m also telling the truth.”

Shiki has so many questions. But most importantly.

“She’s not built for the kind of strength to rip men in two.”

“Neither are the Beast or the Headless Rider, and they seem to manage, ne?”

That’s a fair point.  

“How did you even _know?”_

“Oh, please,” Orihara says, slinking to his feet. “Dead Awakusu? No way to miss it. There was an _epic_ showdown in the park, from what I hear. And then little Heiwajima got himself a girlfriend. There’s no way she’s not a serial killer, the trauma in that family runs _deep_.”

Little Heiwajima? Oh, the movie star.

“Speaking of serial killers, I’ve hired a secretary,” Izaya says casually, plucking a pen out of the cup on the desk and reaching for Shiki’s sleeve.

“Congratulations?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. She hates my guts,” Izaya says, rolling up Shiki’s sleeve, pausing at the lack of clear skin, before he frowns and scrawls a number on Shiki’s wrist. “Call me on this number if you need me directly. Never know, ne?”

“Why would you hire someone that hates you?”

Stupid question. But Orihara has the choice of anything out there, he’s not doing poorly by any means. He could conceivably pay someone who’s competent _and_ likes him.

“Unfortunately, she does good work. And can cook. It’s like having a housewife that occasionally considers murdering you for your money.” Orihara brightens like Christmas has come early, “she’s a _trophy wife_. I can’t wait to tell her.”

“Trophy wives don’t cook, they sit around and look pretty and occasionally put out. If anyone’s a trophy wife, it’s _you_.”

“Aw, you think I’m _pretty.”_ Orihara bats his eyelashes obnoxiously. “Flattery will get you _everywhere.”_

Because of course that’s what he would focus on.

“What am I supposed to do with your personal number that I can’t do with your business?”

Sure, he could think of something. But like hell he’s sending Orihara a picture of his dick, that’s a one way ticket to having it blown up and pasted on a billboard.

Orihara shrugs. “Like I said, you never know.”

 

Nobody likes Sloan.

Shiki doesn’t even think _Sloan_ likes Sloan.

One day he simply appeared, with the short explanation that “he’ll be working with us.”

“Wonder which one of us is getting capped,” Akabayashi says, spinning on his chair like a child.

“What makes you say that?” Kine says, because he seems to still be laboring under the increasingly fragile illusion that the yakuza are an inherently noble institution.

He’s not long for this organization.

“Awakusu brought in a hitman, of course someone’s getting capped,” Aozaki says, and Kine looks more disturbed that Aozaki’s agreeing with Akabayashi then he does the implications.

“You can’t ask someone within the organization to rub off another,” Shiki tells him, “it’s a conflict of interest.”

“So Mikiya’s brought in a hitman,” Akabayashi says, “either he’s consolidating his power base or there’s a leak somewhere.”

“It’d be a bad way to consolidate power,” Shiki says. “Just force his opposition underground.”

“Never thought I’d see the day you’d advocate for anything other than sheer violence.”

“Didn’t you once kill two men for wearing belt buckles you found offensive?”

“What’s your point?”

“Nothing.”

“I know who _I_ hope it is,” Aozaki says meaningfully.

Kine just sighs and puts his head in his hands.

“I doubt it’s Akabayashi. He wouldn’t have bothered to introduce them if that was the case,” Shiki says, pressure starting to build behind his eyes.

“Hm,” is all Aozaki manages, crossing his arms.

“I’m a backbone of this institution,” Akabayashi says with no small amount of glee. “I manage a highly profitable business, what do _you_ do, Aozaki?”

What an excellent time to be somewhere else. Maybe that coffee shop down the street.

 

“You missed our last appointment, Orihara,” Shiki says as Izaya slides into the car.

No, not slides. Plops. Lands. Throws. Izaya lacks his usual grace, fluidity. He actually seems grounded to the car seat, like he can barely stand to hold up his own weight.

“Apologies,” Orihara says, and the bags under his eyes and prominent and only highlight the manic fire burning bright in his eyes.

Shiki’s seen that look before. He's seen it on men that live short lives that end on the business end of a knife or in a back alley, overdosed on something that shouldn’t have been in their drug.

It's the look of a man that doesn't expect to survive the day but will enjoy it if it’s the last thing he does.

But it’s really none of Shiki’s business if Orihara kills himself. Saves him the trouble of doing it himself, of incurring the wrath of whatever Orihara’s gotten himself tangled in.

“I don’t have much of the information you asked for,” Orihara says. “I’ll take a cut in the pay, only five percent should do.”

“A five percent cut?”

“No, only five percent of the original price.”

“Did you only manage to get the names of the organization? Unlike you, Orihara.”

Orihara laughs, and it’s a manic sound that speak of too little sleep and too much adrenaline.

“It’s all in the folder, all in the folder.”

There is a folder. It contains a single sheet of notebook paper, bubbly handwriting covering the entirety in stark black ink.

“Orihara, what is this?”

“It’s the information you requested. Terribly sorry it’s not printed, my printer is down. You know how technology is.”

Shiki does, but that doesn’t seem to quite be it.

There’s a click over to his right, then he has a lapful of squirming Orihara, wrestling vainly with the button on his pants.

Shiki gently pushes his hands away. “Orihara, what are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Orihara says through a smile full of sharp, grit teeth. “I’m _trying_ to have—”

Shiki clamps a hand over Orihara’s mouth, mindful of the driver still in the front seat. “Stop the car.”

The car stops.

Shiki hauls Orihara out by the wait, Orihara’s feet twisting and dragging on the pavement until they disappear into an alleyway off the main road.

“What the _hell’s_ wrong with you, Orihara?” Shiki says, trapping Orihara up against the wall. “Are you _high?”_

“Maybe, maybe not,” Orihara says. “Ooh, but don’t worry. It’s all _legal.”_

That doesn’t mean jack _shit._

There’s a sort of calm that comes to him, a sort of deep calm that has his muscles locking.

Orihara’s head tilts, and he’s got the expression of curiosity. “You’re disappointed.”

 _“_ Yes.”

“Ah, you shouldn’t be. It’s not like I really had a _choice_ in the matter.”

What.

Shiki takes Orihara’s chin in his hands so that Orihara has no choice but to look him in the eyes. “ _Who?”_

“The hospital staff.”

He blinks. “Why were you in the hospital?”

“Don’t you watch the news?” Orihara’s smile is almost sharp, but now that he’s looking he can see the hazy dullness of his eyes, how slow he moves. “I was stabbed.”

 _“_ Where? By _who?_ ”

“That’ll cost you— _hey!”_

Shiki doesn’t have time for these games. Orihara’s not actually limping, not favoring a leg. But an arm wouldn’t require a trip to the hospital either.

His hands skim up Orihara’s stomach to his ribs and back down his back when his fingertips catch on the roughness of stitches.

Right in the front.

“Do you know who?”

Orihara laughs, the sound bubbling up from his stomach and ripped from his throat.

And laughs.

And laughs.

And _laugh_ s.

“Oh, do I _know?_ Of course I _know._ That’s the _whole point,_ is that I _know._ Don’t you get it? Don’t you _see?”_

Orihara’s eyes are too bright and they’re searching Shiki’s face, and they’re looking for something, for _anything._

“No, no you _don’t_ see. I’ll help you, you’re a player, too, ne? See, see. Yodogiri isn’t who I thought, not at _all._ It’s brilliant. He’s not _human,_ he’s a _name.”_

Orihara looks up at him, and Shiki doesn’t understand. Not at all.

“It’s okay, I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Orihara’s smile is laced with teeth and cruelty. “Or he’ll make you.”

 _“_ I’m taking you home. You’re in no fit state to be out.”

“Oh, you _care._ That’s so sweet.”

“An informant affiliated with the Awakusu-kai had his guts rearranged. Of course I care.”

Shiki grabs Orihara by the arm and tugs him back to the waiting car. He goes in easily.

But at the next light, Orihara throws himself out of the car and disappears into traffic.

Shiki pulls out the piece of paper that Orihara shoved into his hand. On it is the information he requested, scrawled out in surprisingly loopy handwriting.

Beneath that is an address Shiki’s not familiar with. And beneath _that: You fell victim to one of the classic blunders—the most famous of which is, “Never get involved in a land war in Asia”—but only slightly less well-known is this: “Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line!”_

If he leads a successful raid on an Asuki front hiding as an Italian restaurant-- well, no one needs to know where he learned _that._

They also don’t need to know if he picks up a copy of the _Princess Bride._

 

Tokyo’s ultra-rich fit every stereotype you could possibly imagine, and then some you can’t even conceive.

This space is one above a club, and though the floor vibrates sometimes with particularly loud bass, you could never guess. It’s not seedy and dirty, but lowly-lit with a million alcoves with semi-privacy, to do what you might want.

The club is supposedly prestigious, which means the booze is even more expensive than usual and the young people dancing drunkenly on the floor below are beautiful and the drugs are designer. Akabayashi would blow a fuse seeing the sheer amount of expensive and illegal drugs trading hands, but Shiki doesn’t care and isn’t about to tell him.

This man is one of their best customers, after all.

“I was thinking another tiger,” he’s saying. This will be the forth tiger Shiki’s brought into the country in the last two years for this man. Maybe he eats them. Shiki doesn’t particularly care, but suspects the meat would be rather gamey and not entirely worth the cost. But what does he know? “Maybe a python.”

“Baby, I think snakes are _scary,”_ says a woman clinging to Fujiwara’s arm. She’s different from the last one, but not significantly so. By the time Shiki gets what he wants into the country, she’ll probably be replaced by another. Equally as beautiful, equally as disposable.

“I’ll protect you,” Fujiwara coos back, reaching drunkenly for his glass. He’s dismayed to find that it’s empty and gestures at the woman on his arm, clicking the ice against the glass in an obnoxious rattle. “Be a dear and bring back a bottle of whatever was in here.”

The woman pouts, but glides away to yell at the first wait staff she can find. Shiki’s own glass is still sweating on the table in front of him, untouched. He was poured a generous glass. If it was anyone else he might have taken a sip to be polite. But he’s worked with Fujiwara too long to be anything but wary.

Right on cue, Fujiwara leans forward, like he’s about to impart a great secret. “I know you transport animals,” he’s saying, and he’s definitely too far for Shiki to smell the booze on his breath, but Shiki swears he can smell it anyway. “But do you sell the more… _bipedal_ kind?”

It was only a matter of time. “On occasion.”

“Do you do,” Fujiwara licks his lips, “do _specifics._ ”

“We _only_ do specifics.”

Fujiwara’s eyes are fixed somewhere behind him. He guesses he’ll be having one of his men trail one of the poor drunken idiots home this fine night.

That’s when arms curl around his neck, warm breath on his ear. “Guess who.”

He doesn’t need to guess. He hasn’t heard this voice in weeks, but it sticks with him.

“Orihara.”

“You’re good at this game,” Orihara slurs, though he doesn’t _smell_ of alcohol. And when he lands without grace on Shiki’s lap, his eyes are bright and sharp even if his movements aren’t.

He’s gotten much better at playing drunk.

Fujiwara’s watching Orihara with a glint in his eye as he snuggles into Shiki’s neck.

“How much for that one?” Fujiwara says. He’s one of those ones that’s never been denied a thing in his entire goddamn life.

“Ten thousand,” Orihara whispers in his ear at the same time Shiki says: “Not for sale.”

“I would’ve split with you,” Orihara says as Shiki curls a hand around his hip to keep him in place. Orihara has no clue. He’d never step foot back out of Fujiwara’s house. As much as a pain as he is, he’s _good_ at his job.

When he’s in town.

Fujiwara doesn’t look so happy anymore, is about to open his mouth when— “Baby, I got another bottle!”

His girlfriend returns.

“I see you’re busy,” Shiki says as he stands, depositing Orihara gently on his feet but keeping a tight clamp on his hip. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening.”

Orihara doesn’t fight him as he steers them off into one of the alcoves out of Fujiwara’s line of sight.

“He’s got information I need, you would have gotten some nice pocket change. It was a good deal.”

What? Oh, that. “Nice to see you’re back in town, Orihara.”

Orihara’s smile is wan. “It was a much needed vacation. What can I say? All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

“I’m surprised you were able to keep your nose out of Tokyo for so long.”

“Even gods need breaks.” Orihara’s hands are wandering, moving up Shiki’s shoulders.

“You’re not wearing your coat,” Shiki says, tugging Orihara’s shirt off. Not that he’s _complaining._

“It’s a bit distinctive,” Orihara says, going for Shiki’s shirt buttons, but Shiki bats his hands away.

“Since when have you cared?” Orihara is pretty. Even with the scar on his hip, he’s still miles of pure white skin stretched out over tight muscles. Orihara’s pants are a struggle, but Shiki’s well used to them, even if he’s out of practice, and Orihara’s naked on the bench in no time.

“I don’t care,” Orihara says, then he wiggles on the bench. “Are you going to take anything off, or shall I just put on a show?”

Shiki runs a hand up Orihara’s thigh, across his stomach, to his ribs. “Feel free.”

“Didn’t take you for the voyeur type,” Orihara says, even as pale hands glide across his skin and his face takes on something coy.

Really? He’d pegged Orihara as an exhibitionist. Seems he might be right. Orihara’s hands have no hint of self-consciousness as they trace his own body, twisting and teasing as Orihara’s eyelashes flutter and his mouth parts and the tendons in his neck strain.

They look very nice. Shiki leans down to bite one, and Orihara groans, but it’s clearly fake.

“I don’t have any lube,” Orihara says, “didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be,” Orihara says, hands coming to Shiki’s shoulders. “Not often that I don’t know something.”

Orihara’s stomach tenses when Shiki’s fingers lightly skim his ribs. “Is that right?”

“Of course it is,” Orihara looks up at him through his lashes as his hands dance somewhere Shiki can’t see. “How have you been enjoying the _Princess Bride?”_

“It’s interesting.”

“It’s also a cult classic film. How’s your English? We should see it sometime.”

“My English is fine,” Shiki says, sucking Orihara into his mouth.

Orihara’s hands fly into his hair, tugging and and pulling. Shiki swats his side and Orihara relaxes his grip, fingers only minutely twitching instead.

Not that he didn’t know, but Orihara is… _responsive._ Shiki never has to guess if he likes something, and from what he can tell, Orihara likes _everything._

He’s also pulling on the chain around Shiki’s neck, tugging him back up to say, “let’s try it without lube.”

“Let’s _not_.”

“You’re no fun.”

“None at all,” Shiki agrees, nipping at Orihara’s ear. Orihara clings to the lapels of his suit, but takes no move to take it off. Fast learner.

“Then what’s the _point?”_ Orihara whines, because apparently no one has taught him the finer, slower pleasures of life.

“Getting off,” Shiki says, pulling himself out.

“Ooh, mutual masturbation, _that_ sounds like fun and not something I could do at home.”

“Obviously not.”

He presses down onto Orihara, and legs wrap around his waist as narrow hips wiggle against his. “I suppose this is acceptable.”

“How generous of you.” Shiki rocks gently against Orihara, mindful of how the fabric of his suit probably feels against his skin. Anything can be irritating if done too roughly, even if his suit isn’t particularly coarse.

“Mhm,” Orihara mumbles, burying his face into Shiki’s neck, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “‘M a giver.”

Orihara doesn’t last long, his fingers clenching and thighs trembling but he doesn’t make a sound.

It’s impressive.

Orihara’s hands snake from Shiki’s shoulders down to play where Shiki’s still pressed against him, fondling and stroking until Shiki’s shuddering, teeth clenched and eyes closed.

“Why is it that I always end up a mess?” Orihara complains, dragging his fingers through it like it’s some sort of finger paint.

Shiki hands him a handkerchief.

“Because you like it.”

“Maybe,” Orihara admits. “But it’s still irritating.”

Shiki reaches out and traces the new scar on Orihara’s hip. “It healed nicely.”

Orihara’s smile is bitter. “I suppose. Lucky I don’t have any ink to mess up, ne? Only have my guts to worry about.”

“I’m surprised you recovered so quickly.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Even so, can I offer you a ride home?”

Orihara hesitates. “No, but you can take me to where I’m staying.”

“Fair enough.”

 

It’s become a problem. Now that Orihara’s played hooky for a couple of weeks, it’s become ridiculously obvious.

The Awakusu-kai has become reliant on Orihara for the details of whatever they want, and it’s about as safe a strategy as sitting on a bomb and hoping it doesn’t go off because it likes your ass.

And now Shiki has two major problems.

He has dead men in an apartment, Heiwajima Shizuo as the prime suspect.

And Orihara isn’t picking up his phone.

His phone pings with an email from Mikiya.

Akane’s gone missing. _Three_ problems.

Are they connected?

Possibly. Can’t rule that out yet, especially since Heiwajima Shizuo is unlikely to have killed three yakuza in an apartment. But who’s likely to have framed him in some ongoing feud?

Orihara.

Which means he had to know about the murders.

But why murder _those_ three? Sure, they were _brutal_ deaths, but they weren’t _important_ deaths. No one with access to any real power or information.

But Orihara knew they would be dead, which means that they had to have been _planned._ So, why three random lackeys?

Easy. Because they’re not three random lackeys.

He’d have a background check run, but you know.

Orihara’s not picking up.

“I hear you have a few problems.”

Speak of the devil himself.

There’s Orihara, letting himself through the door, wearing that stupid coat and insufferable smirk of his.

“Nothing I’m sure we can’t handle.”

“Is that so?” Orihara says, coming further into the room. “Because I’m sure I can help you with at _least_ two.” Orihara walks around the desk, leaning against the tabletop nearest Shiki. “For the right price, of course.”

Shiki looks at Orihara. Looks at him posing against his desk with a cocksure smirk.

“I don’t have time for games, Orihara.”

“Of course not. You need to track down the man who killed your men, right?”

“I have a feeling he’s standing right in front of me.”

Orihara losses the playful smirk, and for a moment, Shiki thinks he’s _pleased,_ like Shiki just passed some sort of test.

“I didn’t kill those men.”

“No, but you knew they were slated to die, didn’t you? And you set Heiwajima up to waste my time?”

“No, that’s just an unexpected benefit,” Orihara sighs dramatically, “And here I thought you were on the right track.”

Shiki looks Orihara over. He could hit him. He could wipe that smirk off Orihara’s face, and it might even be satisfying for a moment. But that wouldn’t get him anywhere. It’d just tell Orihara that wasting his time is an effective way of getting to him, that he can be controlled and manipulated that way.

Besides, there are much better ways to pry information out of Orihara.

So instead, he leans back in his chair and prepares to irritate the hell out of Orihara Izaya.

“For all those trust exercises, Mikiya’s not very good at communication himself, is he?”

Mikiya.

Mikiya brought in Sloan, a hit man. Definitely capable of killing three men in an apartment, middle ranked.

Shit. _Is_ he making a move to consolidate power by taking out opposition?

Or Orihara’s trying to make him paranoid.

There has to be another reason why those three in particular.

“I can tell you,” Orihara sings, “but it’ll cost you.”

Orihara’s got his devil’s smirk on, the one that invites danger.

But Shiki knows how to play him.

“No, thanks. I think I’ve got it.”

“Oh? Do you now?” Orihara’s eyebrows draw together ever so slightly.

“Of course.”

Shiki texts his driver to meet him out front.

Orihara trails him out of his office, frowning.

“Then tell me what you believe it is and I can tell you if you’re right.”

“I don’t think I will.”

He texts the courier next. _Please keep an eye out of Awakusu Akane. She went missing a few days ago._

His phone buzzes in his hand not a moment later. _I have her. Don’t worry._

And then: _But don’t tell anyone else!_

What?

Orihara is vibrating next to him, trying to surreptitiously see his phone over his shoulder. Shiki turns ever so slightly.

_May I ask why? The entire organization is out looking for her._

“But what if you’re not right?” Orihara wheedles, rocking back and forth.

His phone buzzes in his hand. _...Another client hired me to protect her._

“I suppose that’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

“There’s no way you’re right,” Orihara goes on.

“Is that so? And why would you be any better?”

Orihara frowns at him and climbs in the car after Shiki. This driver doesn’t ask a silly thing like where they’re going, just takes off.

“Because unlike you, _I_ know what’s going on in your organization. You’re not very good at what’s under your nose, are you? You put a bounty out on Yodogiri and don’t expect any retaliation. You don’t even know who the moles are. You’re so sure you’re secure in your home you haven’t noticed you’ve set it on _fire.”_

Shiki considers this.

“Thank you, informant. That was very enlightening.”

Orihara throws the door open the next time the car rolls to a stop and stomps out into Tokyo traffic.

 

Akane _is_ at Kishitani’s apartment.

“Uncle Shiki,” she says, but she doesn’t sound excited to see him like she normally does.

“Akane,” he says, crouching down to be at her level. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says, but she can’t meet his eyes.

“Akane,” Shiki says, quiet, because he’s seen that scared, jack-rabbit like behavior in too many women, but not one quite so young. “Where were you? Are you alright?”

“I was at Izu-nii’s house,” Akane says. “He’s nice.” She kicks her foot against the ground. “Are they mad?”

“Is who mad?”

“My parents.”

“No,” Shiki says, ruffling her hair. “They’re just glad you’re safe.”

But Orihara won't be.

“Are they okay?”

“Is who okay?”

“My parents,” Akane says, and she looks on the verge of tears. “My house wasn’t _safe.”_

“Who told you that?”

Akane shuffles from foot to foot. “Izu-nii.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said someone was mad at my dad for being mean to him. He said someone was out to kill him. Someone tall and strong with blond hair.”

That’s interesting.

“Your parents are fine,” Shiki assures her, pulling out his phone to call Mikiya. Who now owes him a _huge_ favor.

Mikiya, predictably, drops everything and rushes over at the speed of a concerned parent.

It’s touching, really. Heartwarming. Everything going without a hitch.

Until Sloan throws a flash bomb.

Celty’s off after him in a blink, while Mikiya alternates between covering his eyes and kicking at the sidewalk.

“What the _fuck,”_ Mikiya’s all but screaming.

“Don’t worry,” Shiki says, “the Headless Rider likes kids.”

“I can’t believe that _bastard_ betrayed us!” Mikiya’s muttering to himself. Not muttering, more like yelling. So _this_ is what counts as betrayal, huh?

Not killing three people in a room.

It all sorts together with a _click._ Orihara mentioned Yodogiri Jinnai, implied that setting a bounty was a mistake _and_ that there were moles. Shiki had originally assumed that these were separate warnings, but nothing is _ever_ that clear-cut.

The three men in the room were moles.

Sloan was _also_ a mole. Or the only mole. Maybe for Yodogiri, maybe for the Asuki. Hard to tell at this point.

Taking Akane would have been _disastrous._ They would have had Mikiya by the balls, dancing to whoever's tune. If word of that had gotten out…

Well. An internal split would have been the least of their problems.

Maybe whatever ‘Izu-nii’ told Akane wasn’t _entirely_ off the mark.

Mikiya is making angry noises into his phone, so Shiki sends off a text to Akabayashi instead. _Sloan kidnapped Akane, pursued by Black Rider. Headed East from Kishitani apartment._

He gets a ‘thumbs up’ in reply. Honestly. He works with _children._

 

Kazamoto is, as always, a ray of goddamn sunshine inflicting himself on Shiki’s office. Where _none_ of the other executives should be.

He seems to be here to bitch to Aozaki, mainly. “I’m in the middle of _delicate_ operations,” Kazamoto’s saying. “And he goes and has my moles killed off _without_ asking.”

“He has no idea how we work,” Aozaki agrees.

“Now,” Kazamoto says, “they’re gonna send in _new ones,_ and I’ll have no idea who they are!”

Akabayashi makes a sympathetic noise.

“How did he even _know_ they were moles,” Kazamoto goes on, swinging his eyes towards Shiki. Shiki half expects him to hiss. “Did you tell him?”

“I didn’t know they were moles until they were dead.”

“So you knew they were moles? Who told you?”

For some reason, he feels that mentioning Orihara would not be an excellent idea. “It’s obvious when you think about it.”

“We _all_ know they were moles,” Akabayashi says, flipping through a teen’s fashion magazine. Aozaki is suspiciously silent. “Shiki isn’t special because he sucks the cock, excuse me, _teat_ of information.”

Akabayashi gives him a grin that’s all teeth.

Some days, he feels a _kinship_ with Aozaki that transcends words.

 

Orihara slides into the car off some street in Shinjuku.

“Shiki!” he says, chirping brightly. “Your beautiful face never fails to light up my day. What can I do for you?”

What did he do to deserve this.

“Several things. Do you know of a Nakura?”

“Last name or first? Odd you should ask that, I think I went to school with one, once.”

“Apparently one told the head’s daughter some interesting things.”

Orihara props his hand on his cheek. “How awful. You should be more careful with her. Stranger danger is no joke.”

His tone is flippant, but slightly higher pitched. His hands are relaxed but his legs are tense. He’s lying, but asking Orihara anything directly never got anyone anywhere.

“Sage advice. What do you know about ‘Amphisbaena?’”

Orihara blinks. “Mythological lizard with two heads, one on each end, thought to live in Libya. Though originally without, it’s changed over the centuries to be a winged serpent.”

“I only knew it was a Western dragon-like thing.”

“It’s also a species of worm lizard found in South America. I guess you’re not asking for your charming import business, then?”

“No. It’s some sort of gambling group. Or a nightclub.”

“I don’t recall the Awakusu-kai running something like that. Have you been busy while I was gone?”

Terribly. But not setting up a gambling ring. “We heard about it from one of our customers. They send out invites to different locations via text and use electronic chips.”

“How very high tech of them. Have you tried tracing the server?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“It runs through Estonia.”

“I see. A bit problematic. So you want me to track them down so you can raze them to the ground?” Orihara sounds downright _gleeful_ at the prospect.

“If you would. Oh, one more thing. There’s been a new drug circulating, ‘heaven’s slave,’ it’s called. The group that deals it goes by the same name.”

“Has Akabayashi thrown a temper tantrum and you want me to find them too?”

Yes.

“No. We simply cannot have other groups operating on our territory.”

“Maybe you should focus more on housekeeping instead. It’s not exactly a secret that the Awakusu-kai are on the verge of fracturing, makes it easier to move into your territory.”

Shiki sends Orihara a sharp look. “And whose fault is that?”

“Not mine. You’re not exactly _subtle.”_

“Oh, really now.”

“You should talk to your men about keeping tighter lips and keeping domestic problems _domestic.”_

The car rolls to a stop.

“This is odd, not going to drop me back off on the same street corner?”

“Oh, I will. Just thought to be more efficient with today’s route.”

Shiki scoots over into the center seat to make room as Akane opens the door. “Uncle Shiki!”

Akane looks over him at Orihara with no sort of recognition in her eyes. “Nice to meet you!” she says, settling back into the seats.

“This is Orihara Izaya,” Shiki says. “He’s one of your dad’s business associates.”

Akane gets an odd, conflicted look for a moment, but then brightens. “Hey! I know another Izaya! Have you met him?”

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m the only one I know of,” Orihara says, smiling tightly.

“It’s a weird name, I thought you might know,” Akane protests.

“Nope.”

“Oh.”

“Akane, how was your karate lesson?”

Akane brightens. “It was good! I learned how to kick. Do you wanna see, Uncle Shiki?”

“Later.”

“Oh, okay. Maybe Uncle Akabayashi can come over too?”

“I’m sure he’d love to come.”

“That’s what I hear,” Izaya mutters and Shiki throws an elbow into his side.

Akane keeps up a steady chatter about her school life, her friends. Her new gym. The ride to her house is quick and Akane climbs out of the car waving goodbye, but Shiki doesn’t move from his spot in the middle.

“You have exactly three second to explain. One—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Orihara’s hands fly up. “I’ve been set up!”

Shiki gives him a flat look.

Orihara meets his gaze challengingly for all of three seconds before deflating. “There’s a lot to this story. Can’t possibly tell it in three seconds. It’s likely not what you think.”

“I _think,”_ Shiki says, voice cold, “that you lured Awakusu Akane out of her home via an internet relationship, armed her with with a deadly weapon, and had her kidnapped by the courier and arranged it so no one within the Awakusu-kai would know.”

“Okay, so it’s _exactly_ what it looks like,” Orihara doesn’t look overly concerned. “But that’s not the entire story, either.”

“I’m listening.”

“Really, you’re lucky _I_ found her before someone else,” Orihara’s tone is flippant.

“Explain.”

“She was shopping around online for what she should do when she ran away from home.”

“Now why would she be doing that?”

“Don’t frown at _me_ like that. _I_ didn’t start it. Maybe you should ask her yourself, ne? You might be surprised.”

“Alright, so she was shopping around online, and you, what?”

“I contacted her and had Namie pick her up. Stranger danger is strong in that one. She’d been staying with an associate for a few days.”

Shiki can feel a headache forming behind his eyes. “And you told no one, _why_?”

“There were a few leaks in your organization, you know.” Orihara gives Shiki a smile.”Though I’ve heard your colleagues dealt with that rather... _effectively._ ”

There’s the headache. “Where do you fit in all of this?”

“I’m the stop-gag.”

“And what was leaking?”

“Oh, this and that. I’m sure you’re aware that dear Mikiya hired me to find those moles. Should have let me hire the hitman, too, but it is what it is. Dear Sloan was on Yodogiri’s payroll before your next head even picked him up, as it turns out. I don’t think putting a bounty on Yodogiri’s head was quite the right move, ne?”

“So you had her kidnapped before someone else could.”

Orihara shrugs. “Partly. Part happenstance. She’s found out what kind of business you run, you know. Very distraught. Namie wasn’t terribly happy with that. Mothering instincts are not strong in that one.”

His first thought is that Orihara’s lying out of his ass. He’s uncomfortable, and it shows through a hundred little tells.

But Orihara isn’t uncomfortable _lying._ It’s the other way around.

Orihara made moves to protect Awakusu Akane when he didn’t have to. He didn’t alert the Awakusu-kai, but that might have been the right idea. The more people know, the more chance there is for things to spin wildly out of control.

It doesn’t make anything less _frustrating._ It doesn’t turn Orihara into a saint. But it _does_ deserve positive reinforcement.

“Orihara.” Shiki claps Orihara on the shoulder. “Thank you.”

Orihara straights slightly and gives him a shark tooth smile. “Oh, of course.”

No, that’s not enough, is it?

“Take me home,” Shiki says and the car suddenly accelerates slightly, being given a purpose.

Orihara’s smile is suddenly full of even more teeth, but Shiki’s decided on this course of action and hey, maybe he’ll even be able to sleep when he’s dead.

“‘German at home, latin at the office.’”

“I beg pardon?”

“The words,” Orihara says happily. “Most words that are used to describe the home and things in it are Germanic in origin. While things at the office are Latin.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t speak any Latin,” Orihara admits like this is a great failure on his part, “what would be the point? But it shares enough roots with French that it’s easy to tell.”

“How many languages _do_ you speak?”

Orihara just smiles. “Enough. You were raised in the era of English only, ne?”

Maybe. “I’ve found I’ve never needed more than what I have.”

“‘When the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem begins to look like a nail.’ One would think that you would be straining to know more.”

“Of course,” Shiki says, making his tone as dry as can be. “I’ll just learn one in my copious freetime.”

“There’s no need to be nasty,” Orihara says as he slides out of the car after Shiki without needing to be told. Never let it be said that the boy has a dearth of self-confidence. “This place is nicer than I expected.”

“Terribly sorry it doesn’t meet your expectations, I forgot to put the reminders of human suffering back up for your viewing pleasure.”

“I expected at least _one_ bullet hole,” Orihara continues, undaunted. “Maybe a few cowed tenants.”

“I like to separate my personal and professional life.”

“I thought you really couldn’t do that, being yakuza and all. Aren’t they supposed to be your new family?”

“How often do you see your family these days?”

“That’s an excellent point.”

Orihara scans the lobby while they wait for an elevator, probably finding all the major flaws and ways one could enter without using the front door. He’s probably now well equipped to kill Shiki whenever he wants.

Except that Shiki doubts that Orihara has the guts to kill him.

Could probably pay someone else.

Mh. It’s too late now.

“Top floor, ne?” Orihara says. “Ever been to the roof?”

“No, but I’m sure it has one.”

“Of course it does. Unless you get wet everytime it rains?”

That’s not what he meant. He sends Orihara a dark look, but Orihara just gives him a sunny smile.

Orihara’s out like a shot as soon as the doors _ding_ open, bouncing around Shiki’s front door.

“I should have _known_ it would be a penthouse,” he’s saying, poking at the doorknob in a way that makes Shiki nervous, but he restrains himself long enough for Shiki to open the door with his key.

But he’s oddly restrained once he’s inside, taking the time to study each and everything.

Shiki has the unsettling feeling that Orihara’s getting some deep psychological meaning from the tasteful pictures he has adorning the walls, probably something about classical elegance that has no nudity, that he has great respect for women.

Orihara lingers for a long time in his living room, scanning and noting. “It’s not what I had pictured,” he says at last.

“Shocking how some of us prefer comfort over metal.”

“I didn’t expect proto-goth,” Orihara protests, “more of a color minimalism. White everywhere, maybe offset by a nice full color portrait of you petting a tiger. You’ve got too much black.”

“Not all of us have an ego as big as yours.”

“Funny how that’s the thing you object to. Hey! You have a TV.”

“You say that like you don’t.”

“It’s not something I saw you having, is all. Seemed a bit beneath you.”

“Not in the slightest. Though I do tend to watch things more...mature than Sesame Street.”

“It’s _educational,”_ Orihara says in his best mock-offended tone, hand on his chest. “And more importantly, it annoys Namie.”

Namie? Oh, Yagiri, the charming woman on the other end of Orihara’s phone these days.

“Can I get you something to drink, Orihara?” Shiki says, because his mother raised him well.

“Tea would be nice,” Orihara says, far to politely, like he’s not going to make a break for poking his nose around Shiki’s flat as soon as his back is turned.

Shiki waves a hand tiredly in his direction. “Just do it.”

Orihara doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s through Shiki’s bedroom door in a moment, moving so fast he’s pretty much a blur.

“Wow, you _fold_ your underwear?” comes through the door, followed by, “ _and_ have torture hooks on the ceiling?”

Yes. That’s what those are. Forgot he had those.

“I use the same toothpaste!” a moment later, with, “your taste in books is _awful.”_

Honestly, he’s surprised Orihara hasn’t found his--

“What’s with all the ropes?” Orihara’s coming out of the bedroom a moment later holding a sad, half-used tube of lube and condoms of questionable expiration. “You know, that whore _did_ say you were into bondage. But seriously, when was the last time you had anyone over for that?”

Shiki gives Orihara a steady look. Something like realization flashes in Orihara’s eyes and Shiki smiles.

“Wow, what’s that!” Orihara calls as he dashes into another room.

Not yet, then.

“Why do you have two rooms with couches?”

“One’s a parlor for receiving guests.”

“This is the most uncomfortable couch I’ve ever sat on.”

“It’s so they don’t stay too long.”

“Clever.”

Orihara reappears in the kitchen. “You have another bedroom.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Shiki shrugs. Because the flat _came_ with it, really, and it already had an office. So he furnished it and forgot about it.

“For any illegitimate children that might come from the woodworks. Never hurts to be prepared.”

Orihara pauses. Not for long, but not long enough.

“I’m kidding.”

“I know, there’s no one you’ve been with long enough.”

The kettle on the stove starts to boil. Alright, so it’s not a kettle, it’s a pot.

“No electric kettle, ne? That’s pretty much a staple these days, you know.”

“I’ve never used it. Don’t drink tea.”

“It’s good for instant noodles, I hear.”

He’d rather _die_ than have to choke another package of those down. They taste like desperation and last resorts. “I’m not a fan.”

“Taste of the high-life, ne?”

Orihara accepts his tea with little fuss, not even complaining that Shiki’s technically serving it out of a coffee mug or that the tea leaves are of questionable freshness.

“Is this my reward, then?” Orihara pushes himself and his filthy jeans onto Shiki’s nice, clean countertop in one smooth movement, without spilling his tea. “Brought back to an actual, real private place to be fucked over the counter?”

And he was so close. “Not quite.”

“You’re right, that doesn’t make sense,” he agrees, running his fingers around the edge of his mug. “My apartment is just as private and nearly as revealing to you.” Orihara cocks his head and considers. “The real question is: is it just a reward?”

“What else could it be? I’m not planning to murder you in the bathtub.”

“No, not that. Have you heard of the principle of reciprocity?”

“Briefly.”

“It’s a basic principle in social psychology,” and Shiki distantly remembers that Orihara went to college and probably had to study _something._ “When someone does something kind for you, you feel obligated to return the favor. It could be something small, a compliment. Or something large, like a favor. But,” Orihara’s kicking the cabinets underneath him softly with his heels, like a child, “it can be applied to things outside of that. Like trust.”

“That’s generally how trust works, yes,” and Shiki didn’t need a degree to tell him that.

Orihara ignores him. “We trust those that trust us. So is that what you’re after, Shiki?” Orihara leans closer, dangerously unbalanced. It’s simply easier for Shiki to move to be closer to him before he unbalances and makes a mess of Shiki’s floor too. “Are you angling for _my_ trust?”

The question is meant to provoke, Shiki can see that in the edge to Orihara’s smile and the way his hands flutter. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a genuine question, either.  

And… he’s not sure _how_ to answer. The immediate answer that jumps to his tongue is ‘no,’ but that’s not right. He _is_ angling for Orihara’s trust. Like he said, it _is_ reciprocal. We trust those that trust us. ‘The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.’

But then again.

‘Give your trust to someone who does not deserve it, and give them the power to destroy you.’

But Orihara is in his kitchen on his counter with his shoes near the front door--

But that’s not what Orihara _asked_.

“Yes,” Shiki says, because he does. Having Orihara’s trust would make his life that much easier, wouldn’t it? No need to play a million games to get him to do one thing. Words at face value.

“Isn’t that sweet,” Orihara coos, cradling Shiki’s face in his hands. “You think you can succeed where everyone else has failed. True love will conquer _all,_ ne?”

“Who said anything about love?” Shiki asks, saving Orihara from his own slip of the tongue by putting his in there.

"Just checking," Orihara says, pulling away. "Can't have you getting any ideas on me." And he dives back in, hands gripping Shiki's hair.

So he’s going to end up fucking Orihara on the kitchen counter. It needed to be cleaned anyway.

But Orihara wraps his legs around his waist and secures his arms around his shoulders. “You know what this is a perfect opportunity for?”

If he’s about to say ‘to incorporate food’ then he’s in for a bad time, because Shiki can’t remember the last time he went food shopping. Unless he wants garlic powder sprinkled over his chest.

Or coffee grounds.

“ _Wall sex.”_

Well, sure, he can do that. Orihara is heavier than he looks, but not by much. Okay, he’s heavy. But hell if Shiki will let it show just how much his arms are straining. But it’s still easier to pin him to the wall that it is to support his whole weight.

“I wasn’t sure you could do that,” Orihara says way too sunnily. “Consider me impressed. But, you know…”

“What?”

“I need to take my pants off.”

“That’s a helpful first step.”

“And I left the lube on the counter.”

“ _Start_ with that.”

“Reality is so unsexy.”

Orihara unwraps his legs from Shiki’s waist, settling his weight down. Shiki goes to retrieve the abandoned lube while Orihara strips, casually flinging clothes about to make Shiki’s eyebrow twitch and delighting in hanging a sock from a lampshade.

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re not naked.”

“Your powers of observation are unparalleled, no wonder you’re an informant.”

“I could cut them off you. Sounds like fun, ne?”

“Do that and I give you a matching scar on the other hip.”

“Ah,” Orihara leans against the wall, arm covering his eyes. “So romantic, take me _now,_ you gorgeous....stallion.”

“Excellent execution.” Shiki’s not a slob. He can take the time to fold his clothes.

“Thank you, I always knew I had a second calling as an actor.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t quit your day job just yet.”

Shiki presses Orihara back into the wall, as Orihara’s hand comes back up and traces his chest. “You’ve gotten a few new ones.”

“A while ago.”

“Huh.” Orihara kicks his leg up and over Shiki’s shoulder. “You’ll have to let me look later.”

“Did you have your hip bones removed?” Shiki says even as he slips fingers into Orihara. “You shouldn’t be that flexible.”

“It’s called ‘working out,’ have you heard of it?”

“Of course I’ve heard of it.” He just doesn’t _practice_ it. Orihara shouldn’t be this coherent anyway, he must be doing something wrong. He slips another finger in and slides his tongue against Orihara’s, around his teeth, exploring what he can.

For his part, Orihara runs his hands along his chest, stroking and pinching and clawing, fingers occasionally tangling in the chain around his neck.

Shiki’s free hand draws idle circles into his his hip as he slowly draws his other hand out.

“Ready?”

Orihara gives him a flat look.

“That’s not a yes.

“Oh _yes,_ I was born ready for your fat, juicy--”

Shiki pushes in without further preamble, pressing a hand under Orihara’s thigh to hoist him up higher.

Orihara’s head drops to his shoulder. “Did you get bigger, by any chance?”

Shiki moves his hips slowly, Orihara’s nails digging into his shoulder. “Not a chance.”

“Ah,” Orihara bites down on Shiki’s neck. Hard. Sharp and and bright pinpoints of pain. “This is great, should have done this sooner.”

That’s always flattering. Orihara likes it hard. Always has. Likes it when Shiki bites hard and scratches and he gives as good as he gets, responding with teeth and nails in kind.

Shiki can’t help it. He’s biting down hard on Orihara’s shoulder and sucking until it’s red and there’s no way it won’t bruise into something purple and pretty and--

“Stamina leaving you?” Orihara teases as he pulls out, not seeming to notice that his voice is strained and his body is trembling.

“Mhmm,” Shiki says as he slides fingers back in, prodding and massaging as Orihara _squirms._ “Have you ever been inside someone, Orihara?”

Shiki traces Orihara’s jaw with his tongue, can see his pulse fluttering in his neck. “Well?”

“No.”

“It’s amazing what you can feel, how much they _want_ you.” Shiki slides another finger in. “How much they stretch for you.” Shiki bites down on that fluttering pulse. “How much--”

Orihara clenches tight around his fingers, soundless as always. He sags against Shiki. “Was that an offer?”

“Maybe. If you’re good.”

“If I’m good I get to expend effort? What kind of scam is that?”

“The fun kind. I’m sure you know where the shower is.”

 

Orihara is interesting because one minute, he can be spread over Shiki’s desk, legs wide, panting and begging, and the next tell Shiki that he’ll be requesting more for the Tanaka job, thank you very much.

And the next, trying to con Shiki into the stupidest idea he’s _ever_ heard. And he works with Akabayashi.

“I’ve had an idea,” Orihara says one day, reclining on the couch like some sort of overgrown house cat.

“Huh.”

“Don’t be like that, it’s a good one.”

“You said that about—”

“Hush, hush,” Orihara says, coming to stand behind Shiki’s chair, leaning his head on crossed arms. “Let’s discuss it over lunch, shall we?”

If Orihara wants to change settings, it _must_ be something stupid. Or dangerous. Or some twisted combination of the two.

Or it’s a euphemism for ‘let’s go have sex.’

“Sure, I know a place.”

He does know a place. It’s a place known for none of the waitstaff speaking a lick of Japanese. Orihara doesn’t complain, confirming Shiki’s fears that it _is_ something stupid or dangerous and _not_ an afternoon sex romp.

“I’ve come up with a solution to your Asuki problem,” Orihara says, trying to stack all the cucumbers from his salad into a tower.

“Oh, yeah? Is it to raze them all to the ground?”

Orihara delicately balances a cherry tomato on top. “Yes and no. But it’ll prove to be entertaining.”

So, dangerous, then. “That’s not reassuring.”

Orihara hums and adds a crouton to his tower. “But it’s true. And it could propel you up the ranks.”

All sorts of warning bells start ringing. “Not interested.”

Orihara stick his lower lip out. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He can damn well climb the ranks himself, fucking _punk._

“Ehh, you’re no fun. Then think of it this way, it’ll save the family from collapsing in on itself.”

“You haven’t even said what it is yet, only that it’s not razing them all to the ground.”

“It’s simple. You’re going to absorb them.”

Shiki blinks at him. Takes a bite of his chicken. “There’s a bit too much animosity for a merger, Orihara.”

“I know. That’s why you’re going to knock their finances out from under them by starting a turf war. Let them have some minor victories, overextend themselves. And bam!” Orihara knocks his food tower down, not all of it landing on his plate. “You use the information you’ve collected to hit at their weak points, lure them into the Meidei group with promises of expansion and resource pooling. Stick and carrot.”

Shiki closes his eyes. “And this will save the Awakusu-kai _how_?”

“Easy. Mikiya brokers the deal. Gives him the victory he needs to sway those pesky doubters to his side.”

There’s a hundred and one assumptions in Izaya’s plan. It’s a terrible idea. Knowing Orihara, he might have even already set it in motion.

But most importantly.

“You want me to give you information on the Awakusu-kai to feed to our rivals.”

“I’d be helpful, yes. But not necessary.”

“And you also expect me to trust that you’re working towards this goal when you have a _long_ history of pitting gangs against each other for the hell of it.”

“Yup.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

“A more powerful Awakusu-kai, of course. Good to be aligned with the strong organization, ne?”

“Like you’ve ever given a shit.”

Orihara plays with his lettuce again, shredding a leaf into small, small pieces. “Maybe you could consider it a trust exercise.”

Orihara won’t look him in the eye. Sure he’s doing a good approximation, somewhere over his right shoulder. He’s uncomfortable enough that it’s _part_ truth. But he certainly has other motives.

Orihara makes it so hard to trust him.

“Traitors die,” Shiki tells him, “you should know. You had a hand in killing three of them.”

“I didn’t kill them, Sloan did,” Orihara says without missing a beat. “But this wouldn’t be like that.”

“What’s different?”

“I’m smarter,” Orihara’s moved on to playing with his napkin, folding it into origami shapes. “I’m better. I can see the whole board. Besides, it’s not like you have much choice. Something has to be done, and _fast.”_

He has a point.

But.

“It’s an awful idea.”

“Oh, come on. There’s no harm for _you_ . If anything, _I’m_ found to be the traitor. But most likely I retain my status as neutral third party. Worst that happens is the Awakusu-kai takes minor hits from the Asuki, but it’s not anything that’s unlikely to happen if things continue on the way they are. Just on an accelerated time scale.”

“This won’t work.”

“Never know if you don’t try, ne?”

 

Bathhouses are a fun, team-building activity.

It’d be more convincing if Mikiya would actually deign to join them.

“I bet he’s self-conscious about his small dick,” Akabayashi says loudly, and the smattering of subordinates let out a nervous chuckle.

“Not like you’re one to be sayin’ shit like that,” Aozaki says from the corner.

“I’m a grower,” Akabayashi annonces to the room, because they really wanted to know that.

Shiki leans back and lets the hot water soothe his muscles. It’s relaxing, he knows this from when he was young.

But these days, he’s accompanied by his _colleagues._ Which is just as relaxing as laying on a bed of hornets.

“Did you two get your tattoos together?” says an unsuspecting subordinate Shiki’s can’t remember the name of, gesturing at Aozaki and Akabayashi.

“Hell no,” Aozaki says.

“Of course,” Akabayashi says.

They are _remarkably_ complementary, one fire and heat and the sun, the other water and snow and the moon. Not necessarily on who you would think, either.

Kazamoto’s not here either, but that’s never surprising.

“The dangers of going to the same artist,” Shiki drawls.

“He’s good,” Akabayashi says, “likes color. Unlike your guy. Beautiful, but kinda monochromatic.”

“I like it, that’s all that matters.”

“And whoever else has to stare at your naked ass. But I’m guessing he’s not a huge fan of bright colors, either.”

Shiki cracks an eye to glare at Akabayashi, but he’s not even looking at Shiki. “Did you hear why Kine got booted?”

“I’ve heard _a_ reason why Kine got booted.”

He still can’t believe Kine is still alive and out there, causing trouble. But Dougen has spoken and the world must bow.

“I heard he was sleeping with Kuzuhara.”

“The anti-yukuza task-member?”

“Nah, the other one. The traffic cop.” Akabayashi smiles at his incredulous look. “No, really. Kuzuhara had to be transferred and everything. Apparently he’s been giving hell to the Black Rider too, he’s absolutely insane.”

“You sound excited.”

“Why would I be? I don’t drive.”

“Never stopped you before.”

“I’m a changed man, don’t pick fights anymore, can’t you tell?”

Shiki just hums.

“It might mess up my ink,” Akabayashi continues.

“Yeah,” Aozaki says, “you ever see a scar heal with ink in it?” He shakes his head. “Don’t go messing up your beautiful shoulders with that shit.”

Sage advice.

“But the real problem is we don’t have enough players for strip poker anymore, since Mikiya won’t play and Kazamoto’s in a snit. You know anyone decent?”

“Hey, what about that Orihara guy?” Aozaki says with the voice of a thousand demons sitting on his shoulder.

“That’s an excellent idea!” Akabayashi perks up, “hey, Shiki, ask him. We need the fourth player.”

“I’m not sure he knows how to play. Besides, who says he wants to see a bunch of old men get naked?”

“He doesn’t seem to have a problem with it so far.” Akabayashi leans in far closer than Shiki’s entirely comfortable with when he’s naked, but he cannot show fear. Akabayashi can smell it. “Come on, I’ll give you the details on the port’s import rosters.”

“I’ll ask.”

“Good man.”

“Did you get new ink?”

“A while ago, now.”

“Looks good, suits the lines of your muscles.”

“Thank you.”

 

He’s just trying to enjoy a single night of poker, sans removing clothing.

It’s usually pretty easy. The stakes are relatively low, cash only. Booze flows freely for those that want it.

Everyone pretends to drink deeply but really nurses their one drink throughout the night, looking at each other suspiciously.

House rule require everyone to roll their sleeves up to at least their elbows, and there isn’t an uninked forearm in the place.

It’s times like this that Shiki’s glad he’s gone to the tattoo artist out in the boonies, it’s a pain, but he’s _good_. Some of the designs are simply jarring, bad color blends and things layered on top of each other instead of a cascade of ink. Akabayashi might give him shit, but sometimes it’s the way to go, less room for error.

Orihara sidles in at three in the morning like he’s supposed to be there, still wearing that stupid coat of his.

“Orihara,” someone greets, loud and boisterous. “Long time no see. I thought you were too good to play with us.”

Orihara smirks, “I am, I just wanted some pocket money.”

Someone slaps him across the back, but Orihara’s busy scanning the room, smirk growing when he catches Shiki’s eye. He saunters over, coming to stand behind Shiki.

“Sorry, Orihara,” the man across from Shiki says, “this one’s in progress, we’ll deal you in next time.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Orihara says, sliding into Shiki’s lap like he’s some sort of cat, hooking his arm around Shiki’s shoulders for support. “Watching can be fun too, ne?”

Shiki slides his cards into one hand, wrapping the other arm around Orihara’s waist to keep him still.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, too. Feel free to slide into my lap whenever you please, really.”

“Didn’t I tell you once? I don’t play, I just travel from lap to lap.” Shiki’s hand tightens on Orihara’s hip for a brief second.

He hopes Orihara doesn’t notice.

So of course Orihara whispers in his ear: “Don’t worry, I like you best.”

He’s not wrong to call Orihara a cat. Mostly, he sits and makes occasion quips and twirls his fingers in the fringe at the back of Shiki’s neck that he’s really been meaning to have cut.

“Graduated from player to arm candy, Orihara?” someone says from Shiki’s left.

Orihara laughs and nuzzles into Shiki’s neck, whispering. “Across from you has a bad hand.”

Shiki hums and increases his bet.

Orihara rewards him by rubbing a thumb behind his neck.

Shiki takes the pot, and Orihara leans in to whisper, “You can take me out to dinner in thanks.”

“I’m not sure you’re worth that much yet.”

The next round, Shiki’s dealt an ace in an otherwise shit hand.

Maybe…

Shiki drops it into Orihara’s lap, and Orihara crosses his legs to hide it from view, the whole thing taking maybe three seconds. Shiki rubs his thumb into Orihara’s hip in thanks.

The next hand, Orihara slides it into his hand casually, subbing out a weaker card for a royal flush.

“You won!” Orihara says like this is a complete surprise to him. “Are you going to buy me dinner?”

“What for? You didn’t do anything.”

Orihara pouts. “I was your good luck charm. Fail to feed me and your luck with turn sour.”

“Can’t have that, can we?”

“Going already, Shiki?” one of the other players says as Shiki coaxes Orihara off his lap.

“Gonna try and catch a restaurant before they all close.”

The air is verging on cold when Shiki pushes the door open, especially after the heat of too many bodies in a small room.

“I feel like sushi,” Orihara says, trailing behind.

“That’s funny, you don’t _look_ like sushi.”

“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”

Shiki almost doesn’t hear the door swing open again. But he does, turning to see maybe if someone followed them out, trying to teach a lesson about cheating.

Sometimes, time really does slow down to move at a snail’s pace, like warm molasses.

There’s a gun. They’re yakuza, there’s _usually_ a gun somewhere. He recognizes the man holding it from the poker tables, but doesn’t know him personally.

There’s a gun and it’s pointed in his general direction, but it’s not point at _him,_ it’s a bit to his right, where Orihara stands.

“You _traitor,”_ the man hisses.

“Calm down, Ito,” Orihara says, putting his palms up. “I’m sure I can explain.”

“Explain that you’ve been playing us like a fiddle?” ‘Ito’ snarls. “I knew you were a _rat._ They didn’t believe me, but I _knew_ you were still cozy with the Awakusu-kai.”

Orihara doesn’t know the look of a man preparing to shoot. But Shiki does. He can step in front of Orihara, of course. But being passive hasn’t got him anywhere and he doubts it’ll start being effective now.

He’s halfway on top of the gunman when he hears a gunshot. He’s fired a gun before, of course. Can recognize it even if it takes him a moment.

In his career, he’s never been shot once.

He’s surprised at how much it _doesn’t_ hurt.

The gunman wiggles out from under him, and Shiki tries to grab an arm, or a leg, but he’s a lot slower than usual and his arms aren’t responding quite right.

There’s a clatter of feet, and he looks behind him, to Orihara.

Orihara’s staring at him, his face pale and pained like _he’s_ the one that’s been shot, eyes wide and far away.

He manages to sit up at least, even if the ground doesn’t seem to be cooperating like it should be.

And that’s when it starts to hurt.

It feels like something _burning,_ then like a solid punch to the kidney and then like he’s been ripped from the inside out by a hot shovel. There’s something warm trickling down his leg and for a horrifying instant, he thinks he’s wet himself.

Oh, no it’s only blood.

That’s fine.

Orihara’s trying to wrestle his coat off.

“What are you doing?”

“I need it to staunch the blood, idiot.”

“Don’t use mine, use yours. It’s already garbage.”

“This is what you use your breath for? To insult my fashion choices?” Orihara uses the moment he’s distracted to steal his coat and press it into his side.

“Good of a use as any.”

“ _Christ.”_

“No, _Shiki._ Though I’m flattered. _”_

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

“It’s a gunshot wound.” That seems really important for some reason. He can’t remember why.

God, he wants a cigarette.

Where’d he put them?

Oh, pocket.

“I can’t call Kishitani, he doesn’t store blood.”

The carton’s a little bloody, but the cigarettes are fine.

“What’s wrong with the stuff I’ve already got?”

But his fingers aren’t working right, can’t quite get the lighter to. Do the lighter thing. With the.

Fuck.

“It’s all over the _ground._ ”

That might be a problem.

“—lose pressure in the—”

“Orihara.”

“—immediate medical care is vital—”

“Orihara.”

“—too stupid to—”

“ _Izaya.”_

Izaya’s head whips toward him. “What is it?”

“Light this for me?”

Izaya gapes at him, but takes the cigarette from him, leaving pink fingerprints on the white paper, flame wavering as his hands shake.

And just to think he’d been so careful to not get them bloody.

Shiki takes it back from him gently as he can but his are stiff and it’s an awful lot of work to hold it in his hands.

Orihara’s bubbling something at him, but he’s not quite sure _what,_ but he always talks so fast, a million words a minute like the air might leave his lungs any second and he’s not sure it’s important, but he listens anyway because he always says interesting things. Orihara’s face swims in and out of focus, but the cigarette is constant and real and warm in his fingers, smoke warm in his throat.

Until it’s not and Orihara’s face is wash with blue and red and isn’t that some fucking symbolism and the hands are here to drag him down down down like his mama told him they might if he wasn’t good but he doesn’t regret, not at all, not ever.

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops, so apparently it's been four months.   
> but it's Done. and here we reach the the Actual Part for which this monstrosity was written.
> 
> thanks to Yu-yu for beta-ing, I'm a horrible speller and even worse editor but she slogged through, god help her

His eyelids are heavy but he manages to pry them open with sheer force of will and regrets it immediately.

Everything in the room is painfully, eye-piercingly _white._ From the walls to the sheets to the floor to the light from the bulbs above. The light seems to ricochet around his head, making him dizzy and leaving pain where it touches.

Wherever it is, it’s clearly not his apartment, that’s for damn sure.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

Wait. He knows that voice. He’s heard it almost every damn day for years, it’s the harbinger of migraines and problems.

Akabayashi.

Oh, god. Please don’t let this be what he thinks it is. Please, if there’s a god.

“You know, the first time _I_ got shot, there wasn’t any of this nice hospital shit, just a kitchen table and some booze.”

Oh, he’s been shot? Hospital? Ah, now that he’s listening, he can hear the faint beep of a heart monitor to his left, smell the ever-present sting of strong antiseptic.

He can remember too, it’s easier when a deep ache down in his side is starting to make itself known in a murky sort of way, like there’s a blanket between him and the rest of his body.

There was a dark alley. And some jackass with a gun. And Orihara.

Well, Izaya, now, he supposes. Can’t really say you don’t give a rat’s ass about someone when you’ve jumped in front of a bullet for them. Trying to distance himself now is kind of pointless. Doesn’t want to, anyway.

It’s not really a realization that he’s tied himself to Izaya as much as it is an acceptance.

Ah, but Izaya’s gonna eat him alive now that he’s shown his hand, isn’t he?

Or maybe not.

He’s got a rather hazy image of Izaya’s face, blood smeared on his cheek, fear in his eyes.

“Hey, _hey,”_ a pair of fingers enter his line of sight, snapping. “Anyone home?”

Shiki tries to swat the hand away, but his arm is heavy and slow like he’s moving through water and Akabayashi pulls his hand away before he’s even close.

“Hey, hey, violence is _never_ the answer. Use your words.”

“Fuck you,” Shiki says, sounding like he’s been deep throating sandpaper for the past few hours. Feels like it too.

“Glad to know you’ve retained your charming personality.”

“I was shot in the gut, not in the head,” Shiki croaks out.

“Sure, sure. But you were also out in a mini-coma for three days after taking a bullet for your dear love. Wouldn’t be surprised if you woke up with a convenient case of amnesia.”

“This isn’t a soap opera,” Shiki says, before the cotton in his head lets the gears start turning. But then they do, with a thunderous _clunk._ “What did you say?”

Akabayashi settles back in his plastic chair. He looks completely out of place in the sterile white room, despite clearly having made a space for himself in it. A stack of magazines litter a small table, ranging from a gossip magazine to a culinary expose to a pamphlet on prostate health.

“Jumping in front of a bullet. For your love?” Akabayashi looks amused. “Come on, did you think nobody would know? Who do you think I am?”

A giant pain in his ass and walking headache. So of course he knows.

“Who said anything about anyone else being there?” Shiki mumbles, trying to use the heels of his palms to rub out the dull throb behind his eyes. It doesn’t work even a little, just makes interesting lights swim in circles when he opens his eyes.

“I did. And I’m giving you three minutes to explain yourself before you didn’t pull through the operation.”

Shiki’s head is still full of cotton and he’s not entirely sure what day it is and he thinks that might be the point.

“Explain what, exactly? I got shot, seems pretty cut and dry.”

“Why you’re plotting with Orihara to overthrow the Awakusu-kai using the Asuki?”

Shiki doesn’t _start,_ he’s too drugged for that nonsense. But he’s also not on the top of his game and Akabayashi’s too perceptive by half sometimes.

“Ah, so there _is_ a plot,” Akabayashi says, “I was wondering if your boy was just fucking you to get at the juicy bits of information.”

“Maybe,” Shiki says, because who knows why Izaya does what he does. Shiki’s not sure _Izaya_ knows. He feels tired, and not the underlying sleepiness of painkillers. The kind that’s all mental and sticks behind his eyes and makes him feel at least one hundred years old. “How’d you find out?”

“A magician never reveals his tricks,” Akabayashi says, and it’s almost flippant except for the the undercurrent of tension and the way he’s playing with his cane.

Akabayashi’s not very physically imposing. He’s stronger than Shiki sure, has a few pounds on him, but he’s no Aozaki. He’s tough, but not a tank that can take a thousand blows and keep soldering on. And though Shiki’s noticed that he usually moves with the odd grace of those that know their body and how to use it as a weapon, he’s never felt particularly threatened by it. Akabayashi’s always been the threat behind the scenes, the wild card that knows too much and he trusts too little. But now he feels it, can feel how helpless he is physically. He’s in a hospital, he’s pretty sure. But he doesn’t know where. He doesn’t know how long.

But wait.

“Can’t believe you let me wake up, then. If you’re so sure.”

“Eh, do I really seem like that sort of hot-head?” Akabayashi says, grinning. “Can’t counteract a plot if I don’t know what it is. Or even if I _should_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Akabayashi says, “that I’m not sure you’re a complete idiot.”

Wow, that was _almost_ flattering.

It’s more flattering once he considers that the Awakusu-kai is the only thing standing between Akabayashi and the anger of his last family, he’s got his life on the line.

And for a second, Shiki considers _lying_. It’s not just him on the line. It’s Izaya, too, and it might not have been his idea but he did agree and it’s as much his responsibility as it is anyone else’s. And like hell he’s going through another aeration hole for nothing. But he’s too out of it and Akabayashi’s too sharp.

And Akabayashi, more than any of them, more than Mikiya, should fear a splinter in the ranks.

And Akabayashi is crazy enough to help.

“I’m baiting the Asuki into over-extending themselves,” Shiki says.

Akabayashi raises an eyebrow. “To take them down? That’s a little presumptuous, even for you, Shiki.”

Shiki shakes his head, and his eyes feel a little like they’re swimming. “No.”

“Oh?”

“To merge.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Akabayashi starts to snicker, building into a crescendo that echoes off the walls before he finally calms down. “I’ll give you points for entertainment,” Akabayashi says at last. “But you know there’s easier ways to move up the ranks, right? Like taking out everyone above you. Building a new brothel by yourself. Starting your own family.”

“Not for me,” Shiki says. “For Mikiya.”

The silence is back again, but Akabayashi’s laughter is not. Instead, there’s something pulling on the corner of his mouth and a gleam in his eye. “So let me get this straight. You’re trusting Orihara, the slimiest bastard in Tokyo, to give sensitive information to our rivals in the hopes that they’ll overwork themselves and _might_ be willing to consider a merger. That you will tenderly guide our glorious leader through.”

“That’s the gist of it, yes,” Shiki confirms, eying Akabayashi wearily. He doesn’t _see_ a syringe of any sort on Akabayashi, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one.

“That’s so stupid,” Akabayashi says with a grin, “that it just might work. Count me in.”

The pull on his limbs is getting too heavy and he’s starting to feel a glass wall slide between him and his surroundings. Time to get Akabayashi out before he says something stupid.

Stupider.

“Great,” Shiki says, closing his eyes. “Thanks for coming, glad we got that settled.”

“Oh, I’m not leaving,” Akabayashi titters. “I’m your bodyguard. Don’t you feel special?”

“Not with your track record,” Shiki says dryly.

He’s not reassured by Akabayashi’s smirk in the slightest.

* * *

 

The second time he wakes up isn’t nearly as graceful or natural or life-affirming as the first.

“Hey, lover boy!”

Not that Shiki’s ever been a particularly heavy sleeper. His mama used to complain when he was little that he was so fussy, wouldn’t sleep at all unless she was right there beside him, springing awake at the slightest of sounds.

But drugs change things.

“The _actual_ fuck!” Shiki hisses between grit teeth, arms moving to cover his stomach.

“Sorry,” Akabayashi says, grinning and not looking the slightest bit sorry, twirling his cane. “The love of your life’s coming through the window, thought you might wanna be up for that.”

“And calling my name too simple for you, or what?”

Now that Akabayashi’s said something, he can hear a faint scratching from over near the window, the scrape of metal on metal.

“You could view it as me doing you a favor,” Akabayashi says, moving toward the door. “You look much more pathetic this way, chicks dig that, when they can coo over their lover lying in pain in a hospital bed.”

Shiki wants to say: _according to what, soap operas?_ Or: _how the fuck would you know?_ Or: _Orihara isn’t a chick, I would know._

But all that swirls together and comes out as: “Please god, _no_.”

Akabayashi laughs and the door clicks ominously shut behind him.

There’s a sharp click from over near the window and the scrabbling stops. Shiki’s heart monitor starts beeping faster like the goddamn traitor it is. The squeal of an long unused window as it scrapes open. Crap.

He could pretend to be asleep? The lizard part of his brain thinks this is an excellent idea. It’s afraid for reasons the rest of him has yet to comprehend.

Maybe Izaya will go away? Probably not, but it buys him time, right?

Shiki closes his eyes and does his best impression of sleeping. It shouldn’t be hard, right? He was not ten minutes before. Damn Akabayashi—

His eyes are closed when he hears the first soft click of shoes against the tile of the hospital floor. Izaya’s steps are light, easy to miss among the beeps and clicks of hospital machinery.

He loses Izaya’s location when he gets closer to the bed, only finding him again when a cool, dry hand lays gently on his cheek.

There’s a beat of silence before Shiki feels warm breath on the shell of his ear. “I know you’re not sleeping.”

Well, hell. But he’s in too deep now. He _knows,_ knows that Izaya won’t leave just because he’s asleep.  But his brain just _won’t work_ and his dumb instincts take over and he freezes even as his logical mind screams at him from behind a glass wall.

He hears a giggle, and feels a warm puff on his ear before something warm and _moist_ slides into it.

He swats at Izaya, but Izaya hops back lightly before anything can connect.

“Mo~orning, sunshine!” Izaya says, smile bright and sharp with false glee. “How’d you enjoy your mini-vacation, hm?” Izaya taps his finger to his chin. “Or maybe less of a vacation and more of a fairy-tale curse, ne?” Izaya casts a sly glance around the room. “Where’s your dragon, hm? He was so vigilant, don’t tell me the Awakusu-kai have decided you’re no longer worth the trouble?”

“Who’re you calling a _princess?”_

“Ah, yes. Focusing on the _important_ things, are we?” Izaya grabs Akabayashi’s abandoned chair, dragging it over with a loud screech against the tile.

“Just cause I’m in a hospital bed doesn’t mean you can get away with saying whatever the hell you want.”

“And what will you do about it, ne?”

“I’ll throw a pillow at you.”

“Ooh, we’re back to corporal punishment, hmm?” Izaya’s body language and tone are at a total mismatch. His words are flippant, but the delivery is dull, and his shoulders are tense and hunched even as he tries to sprawl in the tiny chair. One arm is slung over the back of the chair, but an agitated thumb spins a silver ring around and around a finger.

“Perhaps. If it would get anything through your thick skull.”

Izaya’s eyes narrow into thin slits and his mouth becomes a tense, unhappy line before his features smooth out and his eyes glitter with a restrained sort of anger.

Ah, so that’s it.

“Thick skull, hmm?” Izaya says, hissing just the slightest bit. “Last I checked, I wasn’t jumping in front of bullets, ne?”

“I—”

“Do you know how long you’ve been here?” Izaya says, and now he’s leaning forward in his chair, “A _week._ ”

That would explain why he feels a little less than entirely refreshed and more like he’s been run over with a semi truck.

Twice.

“I—”

“And do you know _why_ you’ve been here so long?” Izaya says, slinking out of his chair.

“I imagine it has something to do with getting shot.”

Izaya ignores him. “Because it hit your kidney. They had to reconstruct it, you know.”

“I feel like you shouldn’t be able to have access to that information.”

“Not to mention the blood loss,” Izaya says, and now he’s leaning over the bed, trying his very best to loom.

It’s very impressive, honestly. The way his eyes glitter with anger and a little residual fear, the way his voice hisses, how his taunt muscles can easily been seen on his lean frame.

 _That should be terrifying,_ he notes distantly. _That’s really hot,_ says the rest of him.

What _is_ he on?

“They had to restart your heart _twice,”_ Izaya says, fists bunching in the sheets. “You were _dead.”_

“Thank goodness for modern medicine,” Shiki says. “Sounds like they’ve really got a handle on this.”

“You _can’t_ just jump in front of bullets,” Izaya’s saying, spinning around, pacing the room in long strides. He’s lifting his hands, forcing them down half way from his hair.

“I don’t make a habit of it,” Shiki assures him and refuses the urge to smack his lips together to get rid of the damnable cotton feel. He eyes the pitcher sitting innocently on his bedside table. It’s worth a shot.

“You shouldn’t do it, _ever,_ not _once,”_ Izaya says, and he’s not yelling, but his tone is forceful and he’s almost hissing.

“Mhm,” Shiki says. The water pitcher is heavier than it should be, but he manages to pour a cup without an impromptu shower.

Izaya strides back over to the bed and smacks Shiki’s cup straight out of his hand. “You can’t put your life on the line for me. For _anyone.”_

Shiki looks at the cup mournfully. He’ll excuse Izaya this time, he’s having an emotion and it must be _very_ difficult for him.

And Izaya is a bit too far away to smack properly.

Details.

“Of course I can,” Shiki says, picking up the whole pitcher. He’s sure he can be forgiven for a lapse in manners for this one. “I just did.”

“And you don’t see any problem with this?”

“Not particularly,” Shiki says, bringing the pitcher to his lips. Ahh, sweet, sweet relief.

He puts the pitcher down in time to see Izaya glaring at him, eyes wild, fists clenched. He meets Izaya’s eyes steadily. “I’d do it again.”

Izaya spins on a heel to push out the door, gait evening as he goes.

It’s almost a purposeful stride as he slams the door open to reveal Akabayashi coming back with a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other.

Izaya doesn’t even pause as he pushes past, disappearing out of Shiki’s line of sight.

“Wow,” Akabayashi says, coming back into the room, closing the door behind him. “You musta really fucked up if you’re not getting hospital sex after taking a bullet for a guy.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Akabayashi lifts a shoulder, coming to settle back on his old chair. “What makes a hospital any different from an office building? Here you even have a bed and everything.”

Shiki doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

* * *

 

Daytime TV is somehow _worse_ than he remembers.

But it’s fascinating in the same way that watching a train wreck is, and he can’t turn away. One woman is asking an unqualified man to help her stop eating paint. There’s a soap opera where the son that was unknowingly having _intimate relations_ with his own father accidentally kills his brother to protect the secret of.

Something.

Shiki’s not sure. Not entirely sure he wants to know.

Akabayashi joins him around noon, dragging the chair to face the TV.

“Change to channel three, Ruri’s doing an interview.”

Ah. Well then.

“Aren’t you supposed to be guarding me?”

It’s a typical talk-show type, some perky host sitting across from Ruri, asking everything from the inane to the deeply personal without so much as missing a beat.

“I have to sleep at some point.”

“I feel so secure.”

“Your little guard dog’s doing a better job than anybody sitting here could do.”

Ruri, of course, looks as perfect and beautiful as she always does, a picture in a Lolita dress and hair pulled gently away from her face.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Akabayashi reaches into his coat and pulls out his pack of cigarettes, grabbing one with his teeth. Shiki waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t, just sits chewing on the end of an unlit cigarette.

“I heard she’s releasing a new single soon,” Shiki says conversationally.

“Oh, yeah? Probably why she’s on the talk show, then.”

The conversation moves on, to her rumored romance with some actor that tickles some sort of faint recognition, something he once heard Izaya say. It’s not until a picture flashes up on screen that the connection solidifies. The younger Heiwajima. The Ikebukuro darling.

Ruri vehemently denies it. Well, she _denies_ it, all with that same sort of blankness she does everything else.

“I hear idols aren’t allowed to have romances,” Akabayashi tells him. “Apparently it’s not good for merch sales. Or morale.”

“No wonder she’s denying it, then.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a long silence. The host’s cheerfulness never flags in the face of Ruri’s continued total indifference. If it wasn’t obvious it was fake before, it is now.

“Izaya said she met someone, gave up serial killing for him, apparently.”

Akabayashi blinks at him, long and slow, before laughing, deep from his stomach.

“You looking for that in a relationship, Shiki? You gonna give up your criminal ways because you’ve found _love_?” Akabayashi can’t even keep a straight face, smirking all the way through.

“Hey, you never know. Maybe I’m the reformer. Maybe I’ll turn him from his wicked ways.”

“That’ll be the day,” Akabayashi says, reaching for his cigarettes before remembering and dropping his hand. “But you know you can’t just trust anything he says to you, right?”

“Do I look stupid?”

Akabayashi gives a long look at the hospital bed, at the blinking and beeping machines and monitors.

“Fuck yeah. But that’s neither here nor there.”

Akabayashi turns back to the TV before whipping back around. “What do you mean _serial killing?”_

* * *

 

The third day he’s conscious, they give him real—well, _solid—_ food.

“How’s that tofu?”

“Shut up.”

Akabayashi pushes his sunglasses up and leans in closer. “Oh, no, is that _chicken?”_

“I’m trying to eat here, stop breathing all over my food.”

“Wow, that’s some impressive fare right there.”

“It’s nutritious,” Shiki says blandly as he chews mechanically on a piece of plastic. Chicken. If Akabayashi wasn’t here, he’d have sent out for delivery by now. Charmed a nurse. _Something._

But Akabayashi’s watching with a kind of sadistic glee as Shiki shovels each bite down.

He’s had worse. Far worse. But his life of luxury has apparently softened him, he remembers when he’d eat instant ramen noodles dry, washed down with a bit of an energy drink and chased by some fruit snacks for nutrients.

Ah, the good old days.

“Can I turn on the TV?”

“When have you ever let what I want stop you?”

Akabayashi just hums, already flipping through the channels. “Do you think that one drama will be on?”

“Which one?”

“The one with the pregnant daughter, you know. And bad lighting.”

“There’s a one hundred percent chance of that, that’s all of them.”

“Amazing, that’s my favorite.”

Akabayashi flips through the channels a few times. Cartoon, game show, drama, news. Cartoon, game show, talk show, news. Porn, game show, talk show, news.

“It’s not on,” Akabayashi sighs, continuing to slip through channels.

“Must be when the housewives go out and get their groceries, gotta have a break.”

“You’re hysterical, really,” Akabayashi says, settling on the news. It’s not even one of the more reputable sources, one of the trashy ones that reports mostly on celebrity breakups and things that might or might not have happened in central Tokyo. It’s the information channel for those that desperately want to have their finger on the pulse of the new and fresh without coming within spitting distance of it.

“Turn on the real news, at least.”

“This _is_ the real news, you should know that.” Akabayashi re-shifts in his seat. “None of the real shit will make it onto the official channel, can’t alarm the public. It’s why we use— _used_ — your boy.”

“I sure hope he’s a bit more reliable than,” he gestures at the news anchor, made up to the point of perfection and then past it.

_“—reports of an internet cult are on the rise. Some estimate that about eighty percent of all high-school age teens are a part of this cult, and around ninety percent have a connection. Some phenomenon, such as the so-called ‘Black Rider’ are said to have a—”_

_“_ Alright, so maybe they are on to something,” Shiki allows.

“You think Orihara ever sells the scraps to these bastards?”

Shiki thinks about it. It doesn’t take long.

“No doubt in my mind.”

“ _Oh, we have some breaking news!”_ The anchor says at the same time Akabayashi’s phone starts a discordant jingle. “ _Truly shocking to some—”_

Akabayashi scrolls through his phone, starting to smirk. “Your boy’s been _busy_.”

“— _a gang war has broken out between two local Tokyo gangs the Yellow Scarves and the Blue Squares! We’re getting reports of heavy injuries on both sides, at least three gruesome deaths—”_

“Very busy indeed.”

* * *

 

A grating creak snaps Shiki out of his nap.

Akabayashi’s riding the damn plastic chair like a fake pony, metal legs clanging on the linoleum.

“What the hell are you _doing?”_ Shiki croaks.

“Your boy should have been here by now,” Akabayashi says, legs hitting the floor with a decided _crack._ “By all rights, he should have _been here.”_

“What are you talking about?”

“When are you going to be released back into the wild?” Akabayashi whines, ignoring him. “This chair is the _worst_. My ass hurts.”

“Then leave.”

“Right, ‘cause I’m definitely just here cause I like the conversation.”

“Isn’t there some lackey that doesn’t have anything to do?”

“You should be _thanking_ me,” Akabayashi says. “I’m making your life _easier._ A lackey wouldn’t understand when Orihara shows up.”

“Who says Orihara will show up.”

“He killed a man for you. The man incapable of interference had a man murdered and dumped in a bay because he gave you another aeration hole. He loves you, he’ll never leave you. He’ll come to see you in the hospital now that he’s done what he needs to.”

“ _What?”_

“Orihara _killed_ for you,” Akabayashi repeats, “your boy killed a man to protect you. You know how I know? Because a dead body isn’t in his best interest _at all_. You know how information game works.”

There’s a pile of tension building up right behind Shiki’s eyes. It’s a common side-effect of being within spitting distance of Akabayashi.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Yes, you do. You should know better than anyone.” Akabayashi tilts his head. “Ah, there he is. Coming the normal way this time.”

“What? How the hell do you know that? I can’t hear anything.”

“Ah, his trademark footstep is none at all.”

“What does that even—”

The door swings open on nearly silent hinges to reveal a heavenly-smelling large brown bag cradled in the hands of Orihara Izaya.

“May I come in?”

“Oh, thank _fuck,”_ Akabayashi says, levering himself out of his chair. “I’mma go get some real fucking food you two lovebirds have fun.”

Akabayashi rushes out the door so fast he leaves a breeze, pushing Izaya in further so he can close the door with a slam.

“And to think he used to try so _hard_ to keep me out,” Izaya says, recovering himself with a shake of the head and a smirk. “I brought you food,” Izaya continues, as if Shiki’s eyes had ever left the bag. “I remember how bad the food was when I was in the hospital,” Izaya said, swinging the bag. “Practically inedible, more likely to kill than whatever you’re here for.”

 “I didn’t think you stayed long enough to eat it.”

“‘Course I did, I take my health _very_ seriously,” Izaya says with an entirely straight face, pulling out some white boxes from his mysterious paper bag. One. Two. Three. Four. And more peek out from the bag. He flips one open to reveal a burger sitting in a nest of fries, bun perfect and crisp, fries smelling like an artery waiting to be clogged.

Shiki’s stomach growls loudly enough that Izaya smirks.

“Oh, did you want some?” Izaya says, gesturing vaguely. “I suppose I could share.”

“How giving of you.”

“I’m a saint, what can I say?” But halfway to handing over the precious package, Izaya pauses. “But I don’t know, I’m not sure I should be wasting food on a dying man.”

“I’m hardly _dying_.”

“We’re all dying,” Izaya says absently, laser eyes scanning Shiki from head to toe. It’s not a sultry one-over, more of a laser scanning. It kind of makes him want to squirm, but Izaya breaks into a smile when he hits Shiki’s face.

That makes him want to _run._

“Let me see,” Izaya says, yanking the blanket down as Shiki scrambles to keep it up. “You saw _mine.”_

“That’s an unfortunate byproduct of being naked.”

“Last I saw, you had a wide gaping wound in the middle of an alley, lying in a pool of your own blood,” Izaya says with a lip wobble and puppy-eyes that are only ninety-eight percent fabricated. “Is it really so wrong to want to see with my own eyes that my hero is making a speedy recovery?”

“Yes,” Shiki says, even as Izaya takes advantage of his momentary weakness to hike his shirt up.

“They warped your tattoos,” Izaya says with what sounds like disappointment hidden poorly by a layer of observation.

“Probably worse on my back,” Shiki says, regretting the words almost as soon as they’re out of his mouth as a knee is unceremoniously shoved under his back to lever him onto his side.

“It is,” and this time, cool fingers land on his back, tracing around before his back hits the bed again. “You ruined your aesthetics, now how will you show your naked body to your colleagues to prove your manliness and street cred, huh?”

“I rather think a bullet wound should raise my street cred, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Izaya says, fingers prodding gently at Shiki’s stomach. “I’m a bit too refined to conduct business without clothes on.”

“Oh, is that s—”

“I almost forgot to check something,” Izaya says, a glitter in his eye. “Very important, ne?”

“What exactly—”

He can see it _just_ before Izaya moves. Doesn’t mean he’s fast enough to _stop_ Izaya, just means he has a hand around Izaya’s wrist while Izaya has a hand around his dick.

“Seems to be working fine,” Izaya says, squeezing gently. Shiki tries to _disengage_ Izaya’s hand, only to have his grip tighten.

“Izaya—”

“Oh, it’s _Izaya_ now, is it?”

“Yes,” Shiki says, and Izaya’s eyes snap to his. And for a second, Shiki can’t get a goddamn thing out of his expression.

But then Izaya smilesand--

“Well.” Izaya pulls his hand away, settling in his chair with his stockpile of food close at hand. “I suppose I can feed you. Say ‘ahh.’”

A chicken nugget hovers in the air, only moving when Shiki tries to grab it.

“Say ‘ahh’,” Izaya repeats, shit eating grin in full force, damn nugget wiggling in the air.

Shiki tries to give him a look. One that’s sent subordinates and superiors alike fleeing to corners to hide.

It’s never worked on Izaya before, and it has no effect now, only brings the nugget closer to his mouth, nudging against his lips.

“Come on,” Izaya coaxes, smearing grease on his lips. “Open, open. Need food to recover, ne?”

He’ll pay for this. He’ll _pay._

Izaya’s eyes gleam, one side of his smile quirks higher to show canines.

Shiki takes the nugget in his teeth.

“Good boy.”

_Pay._

* * *

Akabayashi comes back only two hours later, after the chicken nuggets have all disappeared and Shiki watched Izaya consume the contents of each and every container.

One after the other.

No breaks.

“A bit hungry there?”

“I was busy,” Izaya says, “I had things to take care of.”

“And you weren’t one of them?”

“I’m eating now, aren’t I?”

There’s a tentative knock on the door.

“Are ya’ll _done?”_ Akabayashi says, poking his head through the door.

“With _what?”_

“We’ve barely gotten started,” Izaya happily reports.

“Shiki,” Akabayashi says, taking in the scene. “Listen. I know you two are sleeping together. I know at some point, in the near future, you will be overcome by lust and feelings and what the fuck ever. I do _not_ want to be in this room when that happens.”

“Of course you won’t,” Izaya replies, shoving a few fries in his mouth. “I would never put on a show for free. Besides,” Izaya reaches over and pats Shiki’s stomach gently. “He’s delicate. Have to be gentle with him.”

“He’s being babied, is what he is,” Akabayashi says, looking around and finding no chair. He opts to lean against the wall instead, legs crossed, like he’s waiting for some sort of damn photo shoot.

“Of course he is,” Izaya says, tossing the last empty box at the trash can. “Money gets you a long way in these places. And I accept nothing less for my princess.”

Akabayashi doesn’t bother to hide his snickers, “Ah, you’re so _precious_.”

His glares have never done anything but egg Akabayashi, but somehow Izaya has grown more immune to his glares.

How foolish of him.

But sometimes retreat is the better part of valor and he pulls his sheet over his head and tries to enjoy his vacation and ignore the two largest pains in his ass he’s ever known.

And he’s been shot.

* * *

 The next time Shiki opens his eyes, Izaya’s still on that damn plastic chair, fiddling on his phone with one hand. His eyes snap up when Shiki makes a noise, and he slips his phone back into his pocket.

“Why _good morning,_ sunshine,” Izaya coos, leaning over Shiki. “Sleep well?”

“Like a baby with an oddly attentive mother.”

“You know,” Izaya tells him, “some consider watching over their partner as they sleep the _height_ of romance.”

“Consider me well romanced. So romanced, you _never_ need to do it again.”

“You have no sense of modern romancing, ne?”

“None,” Shiki agrees. “I’m more of a traditional sort, anyway.”

“Ah,” Izaya leans back in his chair, slinging an arm over the back, “should I go hunt down your parents to ask for their permission?” A hand comes up, fingers wiggling so his rings catch the light. “When should expect my ring, hm? I want a diamond, as large as you can find.”

“Who said anything about a ring?”

“You did,” Izaya says. “You’re the traditional sort, yes? I’ve had your dick in me far too many times for—”

“ _Modified_ traditional,” Shiki amends.

“Hmm, whatever that means,” Izaya agrees.

“He means like _Pretty Woman,”_ Akabayashi says helpfully. “He’ll fuck whores till one of them sticks. The prettiest one.”

“Ah,” Izaya says, nodding like that makes sense. “It all becomes clear now.”

“That’s not it,” Shiki says tiredly.

“What? I’m not the prettiest whore?” Izaya says, pulling out his phone. “Quite frankly, I’m insulted.”

“He’s not a whore,” Shiki tells Akabayashi, “I’ve never paid him. Well, for sex, that is.”

Akabayashi leans over and slaps Izaya on the back of the head with a magazine. “Learn better business sense, you could have had him paying through the _nose.”_

“Oww,” Izaya says, rubbing his head mournfully, looking at Shiki with big, hurt eyes, screaming through his body language _did you see that? Do something!_

Shiki pats Izaya’s hand _mostly_ sympathetically. He’ll live.

* * *

 

There’s a beautiful woman in Shiki’s room.

More importantly, she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, that everything and everyone in it is beneath her. It melts from disdain to disgust as soon as she claps eyes on Izaya, sprawled out in the plastic chair, sleeping.

She brings back a foot, poised to kick when Shiki clears his throat.

“Can I help you?”

“No,” she says, deadpan. “But you can tell him I brought this.” She holds up a bag, holding it as far as she can from her body. The brown paper is saturated on the bottom with collected grease but it smells heavenly.

The smell seems to revive Izaya from his stupor and the bag is out of the woman’s hands before Shiki fully processes what’s happened.

“Ah, Namie,” Izaya croons. “Look, bringing me food in the hospital. We’ll make a proper housewife of you yet.”

Izaya’s busy rummaging in the bag, but he _has_ to feel the murderous intent. Shiki can just about see murderous plots scrolling behind her eyes. But as she turns to leave, Izaya calls out from the depths of his feeding trough.

“Ah, where are my manners?” Izaya chirps.

“You have none.”

“This is Shiki Haruya,” Izaya says brightly, ignoring her. “Shiki, this is my housewife and secretary, Yagiri Namie. You might know her from the human experimentation and trafficking around the area.”

Yagiri crosses her arms, shoving her breasts up. Shiki wonders if it’s intentional, before the contempt in her voice kills that suspicion before it gets off the ground. “Don’t act high and mighty, you were the one to facilitate those, or have you forgotten?”

“Nope,” Izaya says, curling up with his hamburger. “Just sharing some mutual interests you might share with Shiki over here.”

Yagiri turns cold eyes on Shiki. “I’m not interested in bonding with your sugar daddy, or anything that thinks sex with you isn’t a one-way ticket to all sorts of diseases.”

“Now, now,” Izaya chides lightly. “Be polite to our clients.”

Yagiri flips a wave of hair over her shoulder. “Is that what you’re doing here? Comforting a trick?”

Izaya’s smile is quick and razor bright. “Hardly. I’m—”

“You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?”

Izaya’s smile stretches and gets a maniac edge. “Oh? Don’t I? Is that—”

“Thank you for bringing food,” Shiki says. Attention snaps to him.

Yagiri huffs. “It’s my _job,”_ she says, before leaving, door slamming behind her.

“Shame,” Izaya says, settling back into his chair. “I was going to ask her to bring dinner, too. I was feeling Italian.”

“Is there any reason to have a secretary that hates you?” Shiki says.

“Oh, I suppose,” Izaya says flippantly. “But there are far more to tolerate one that hates you.”

“I see.”

“You don’t,” Izaya says cheerfully. “But that’s alright, you don’t need to, ne?”

“I suppose.”

“It’s like, why do you work with Akabayashi?” Izaya says right as Akabayashi pushes the door open, still sucking on his soda from lunch.

“He doesn’t hate me,” Akabayashi says. ~~~~

“Because I can’t kill him,” Shiki says at the same time.

“Exactly,” Izaya says cheerfully.

* * *

 

By the fifth day, Shiki’s not sure which one of them should actually be in the hospital bed.

“Do you want my IV?” Shiki asks. “I think you might need it more than I do.”

“I don’t need your IV.”

Shiki gives him a look.

“Are you sure? How about a hit from the oxygen mask.”

“I’m good.”

“Really? Because you look like something that wandered in from the morgue.”

“And I _still_ look better than you.”

“Oooh,” Akabayashi says from his chair in the corner. “Lover boy gettin’ _mean.”_

“Clearly because you haven’t seen yourself in a mirror,” Shiki says. He holds out his tray of hospital fare. “Would you like some? You must be starving.”

Izaya’s so bad off that he actually looks tempted, contemplating Shiki’s…entree with something far too close to consideration. “I’m good.”

“You don’t look it,” Shiki says, as sweetly as he can. It makes Izaya look vaguely ill. Success. “I have some excellent morphine in here still, are you sure—”

“Keep this up and I’ll carve out your other kidney with a spoon.”

“I’m not sure you could manage,” Shiki drawls, and Izaya just glares.

It’d be more effective if he didn’t look more or less like a bedraggled kitten.

“Do you need a little nap?” Shiki says, patting the two inches of spare room on the side.

Izaya apparently takes that as an invitation and levers himself right in, wiggling into every crevice of space Shiki didn’t even know existed.

Shiki scoots over as much as he can in the hospital bed, which isn’t much, considering it was made to house one ass. But he has three quarters of an ass and Izaya is _maybe_ half an ass, so it shouldn’t be that tight of a squeeze.

It is, in fact, an amazingly tight squeeze, but no parts are left dangling and Izaya solves most of the problem by clinging to Shiki like he’s never once received a hug in his life, ever and like Shiki will fade if he lets go.

“This is cozy,” Izaya says, already half gone.

“It’s _adorable,”_ Akabayashi says, but Izaya’s already unconscious and Shiki doesn’t give a shit about what Akabayashi thinks when it’s not life and death.

* * *

 

He’s released from the hospital to roam the big wide world, a greasy and bright-eyed Izaya trailing behind him.

He’s trying to hail a taxi, but he rather thinks Izaya’s hurting his chances of getting picked up, they look a little too much like a prostitute and his trick.

“You should take a shower before someone mistakes you for one of the homeless.”

“You won’t sponge me down like those pretty nurses did for you?” Izaya says, fluttering his eyelashes. It might be more effective if it didn't look like it was a symptom of withdrawal.

“Don’t pretend to be jealous, I _saw_ you cackling.”

“Oh, I am jealous,” Izaya assures him. “I don’t think my ass will ever be as clean as yours is now. She was really, ah, _vigorous.”_

 _“_ Might need her to give you a scrub, not sure your crust will come off any other way.”

“Are you not up to the challenge?” Izaya says with a glance in his direction.

Ah, inviting himself over then.

“I’m not sure I own enough soap.”

“I don’t think it’s the soap that really makes the difference,” Izaya says, pressingly along his side almost casually. “It’s how hard you scrub. And I think you have the capability to be…suitably rough.”

Izaya’s really does think he’s being sly, doesn’t he?

“If that’s what you want,” Shiki says, and his hand goes to his pocket reflexively, only to find it empty. But Izaya reaches into his coat and pulls out a pack, squished, but still in the plastic, and hands them over.

“I can take it.”

“Not the same thing.” The cigarettes are the brand he normally gets, not out of any real preference, just habit. “Don’t suppose you have a lighter in that coat of yours?”

Izaya huffs, but pulls one out.

It looks familiar.

Silver casing.

When he leans forward to light, he’s sure he can see a nick on the top of the lid.

It’s his.

But Izaya whisks it back into his pocket before he can say anything.

“I don’t think the taxis stop for thugs,” Izaya says flippantly. “You might have to ride the trains like the common masses. Subsume yourself in the crush of humanity. Reacquaint yourself with society.”

Shiki steps out into the street and raises his arm with more urgency.

* * *

 

There are clothes in his closet.

Well, there have always been clothes in his closet, he’s not a slob that leaves his clothes wherever they land.

But the clothes he normally keeps in his closet have been shoved to the side to make room for identical pairs of black skinny jeans and several v-necks in mildly varying shades of grey.

There’s an indistinguishable but happy sound coming from the bathroom, where a second toothbrush cozies up to his.

The noise stops as Izaya pokes his head out of the shower, water dripping onto the bathmat, and it occurs to Shiki that it might have been Izaya _singing._

“Didn’t you promise to help clean me?” Izaya says.

“I provided a shower and soap, isn’t that good enough?”

“You sure you don’t want to join me?” Izaya says, eyelids drooping, not entirely with seduction, Shiki’s sure.

“Yes,” Shiki says, grabbing his toothbrush. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s only ten thirty, don’t tell me you’re tired already.”

He’s not. He’s really not, especially after the long stint in his cushy hospital bed. There’s the itch under his skin that says he’ll be lying awake for long hours if he goes to bed now, staring at the ceiling counting cracks with nothing to do but think.

But he senses that if he stays up, Izaya will too, pushing himself until he just can’t take it.

Troublesome.

So he finishes brushing his teeth, ignoring whatever it is that Izaya’s doing that he thinks is seductive in the shower.

He puts on pajamas and climbs under the covers and he waits.

The water shuts off not long after, and there are the foreign sounds of another person going through their nightly routine. The scrape of a brush on teeth, the quiet sounds of bare feet sticking to tile.

He pretends to sleep as Izaya opens the door to the bathroom, taking even breathes as Izaya pauses in the door before quietly shutting it behind him.

Then there’s a weight on his back.

Something moist.

Something sticking their _goddamn tongue_ in his ear.

“What are you doing?” Shiki says into the pillow.

The tongue retracts out of his ear and the weight disappears off his back. He turns towards the door in time to see Izaya reaching for the door-knob, the lines of his back tense and his shoulders inching towards his ears. “Where are you going?”

Izaya pauses, but it’s easy to see that it’s “The spare bedroom.”

 “Come back,” Shiki says. “Maybe put on some pants first, though.”

“Seems a little counterintuitive, ne?”

 _“_ No,” Shiki says, “you can borrow a pair of mine if you didn’t see fit to bring a pair when you invaded my apartment.”

“Didn’t think I’d need them,” Izaya says lightly, even if Shiki can see Izaya hasn’t really relaxed much.

Shiki’s pajama pants are a little big on Izaya. Not by much, and mostly they trail and catch on his heels and walk over.

“Well this is simply adorable,” Izaya says, sliding under the covers. “Sharing clothes. Sharing a bed. Did you know that it’s always been seen as a form of bonding? In all cultures. Even the Puritans would have couples sleep together before marriage.”

“Really?” Shiki says, sliding an arm around Izaya and pulling him in. He’s as stiff as a board, trying and failing miserably to relax muscles. Shiki presses his nose into the back of Izaya’s neck, “Tell me more.”

Izaya just about melts into his arms. “Well, not _together_ together _.”_ Izaya continues. “There was a board in the middle, and all that. But a lot of families used to sleep together in one bed. And if not that, in the same room. And there have been studies, you know.”

“Mhm,” Shiki agrees, stroking his thumb along Izaya’s stomach. It’ll be easy enough to slip off once Izaya’s asleep. He’s been in the hospital for a long time, and the underworld waits for no man.

“Yeah,” Izaya continues. “Sharing a bed increases feelings of trust and intimacy.” Izaya’s quiet for a long moment. Long enough that Shiki’s not sure if he’s sleeping or not, he’s not sure Izaya could be quiet for that long without being unconscious. “Does this mean that I have to call you Haruya now? Greet you at the door with a hot dinner and a clean home, hmm? Spit shine your shoes and put out whenever you want.”

“No one calls me Haruya.”

“No one?” Izaya says. “Guess it’ll just be me then.”

“Suppose so,” Shiki agrees. It’s quiet. Shiki’s apartment is _expensive._ The sort of place that sound proofs and isn’t too close to train tracks or highways. But even so, the muted sounds of traffic still filter through. True silence is a price you must pay if you want to live in a city, but it doesn’t seem to bother Izaya. His breathes start to even out under Shiki’s palm, taking the long, slow drags of unconsciousness.

Carefully, carefully, Shiki moves his arm from around Izaya’s waist. He’s almost home-free. _Almost._ When Izaya turns.

It’s so fast and violent he’s _sure_ Izaya’s awake. But Izaya snuffles and nuzzles into his chest and Shiki’s almost positive he’s not.

Shiki tries to gently pry Izaya’s arm from around his waist when a leg is tossed over his hip, cinching tight and pulling him in.

He _has_ to be awake.

But no, Izaya’s breathes are still coming deep and steady and his face is slack and his eyelids are fluttering in that inimitable way of those truly deep in REM.

Figures Izaya would turn into an octopus in his sleep.

Shiki tries valiantly one more time to extract himself from Izaya’s sleepy clutches, but Izaya seems to have grown about four more limbs and a preternatural sense for when he’s about to strike. Instead he resigns himself to contemplating his ceiling, Izaya’s warm breath on his neck, leg across his waist, and arm thrown across his chest.

* * *

 

He wakes up to sunshine in his eyes, something heavy on his chest, and what feels like the world’s most impressive beard.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he _does_ remember Izaya doing some very impressive acrobatics during the night. He’ll chalk this one up to an arm gone rogue.

Speaking of the devil.

His beard turns out to be Izaya himself, sprawled entirely across him like a sentient blanket. Craning his head a little, he can see Izaya’s face, slack with sleep. He looks younger, more innocent. There’s not a trace of mischievousness or sharp glint to betray him.

It’s cute.

Too bad he needs to piss.

You wouldn’t think that a little tip on to his side would be that jarring considering how his midnight gymnastics routine, but Izaya’s eyes snap open before Shiki even makes it out of bed.

“Good morning,” Izaya chirps, because he’s clearly a morning person.

“Mh,” Shiki greets, shuffling on cold feet into the bathroom.

“Should I make coffee?” Izaya calls through the door, “since I’m not getting any morning nookie?”

Of course he should make coffee.

Not everyone can wake up in the morning and want to see the day through to the end without killing every human they come across.

Starting with the one that apparently thinks _humming_ is an acceptable thing to do anytime before noon.

No.

He jumped in front of a bullet for that one.

That would just be time down the drain.

His side twinges and throbs.

Ah, that too.

He’s not young anymore.

He lifts his shirt up. It was hard to get a good look in the hospital with his minders.

It’s not like the light in the bathroom is harsh, either. The morning light filtering through the window is soft, but the lines of the wound are harsh. It’s healing, that’s for sure. But it’s not pretty and it won’t ever be, Izaya’s was right that it messes with his tattoo, the ink around it warps and bends, a break in otherwise smooth, flawless lines. It’s possible that it’ll never stop making itself known, small twinges when he moves too fast.

But it’s okay. He doesn’t regret it.

But it’s one thing for him to love Izaya and it’s another thing for there to be two toothbrushes cuddling in the cup on the sink.

It’s too _early_ for questions like this and the only real way to discover why Izaya’s here is to be around him. God knows Izaya can’t be predicted. And the heady smell of brewing coffee is starting to filter in under the door so Shiki does what he needs to and pads into the kitchen.

Izaya’s going through everything like some of them might contain treasure and doesn’t even bother to hide what he’s doing when Shiki walks in.

“I made coffee,” he says instead, diving back into Shiki’s pot collection.

“So I see,” Shiki says, grabbing a mug.

“You have a lot of kitchenware,” Izaya says, “is that because you feel like you should have it or because you actually cook? A lot of people have things simply because they _feel_ like they should, not any actual desire. And it’s not just limited to things either, relationships. You’ve seen it, ne? The hoarders that collect exotic animals to fill a void they may not be aware of.”

Shiki takes a sip of his coffee. “I cook.”

Izaya blinks at him. “Ah, yes.”

Shiki leans against the counter and watches as Izaya takes through inventory of his kitchen.

He wants to snap “Why the fuck are you here?” when a pot clatters to the tile with an almighty _bang._

But he doesn’t. Because that would probably have Izaya scrambling out the door. It becomes an increasingly attractive prospect the longer Izaya moons over his knives, eyeing them with the hunger of a petty thief, but he’s not sure that’s a good idea. He’s not even sure that’s something he wants, God help him, he _wants_ the brilliant, dangerous creature pawing at his things.

And even if he didn’t, well. It’s obvious Izaya knows he’s at the very least willing to take a bullet, can’t let him wander free with that kind of knowledge up his sleeve.

“Izaya,” Shiki says at last, “why did you kill Ito?”

Izaya clutches tighter on the mug he’s holding, knuckles going white, before relaxing his grip. His eyes go wide, shocked. But tinged with something else, though Shiki’s not sure what yet. The answer might lay at the bottom of his coffee cup. He’ll check.

“Where’d you hear about that?” Izaya says, and he’s trying to hide that he’s really invested and he’s convincing no one.

“Does it matter?” Shiki says, feeling stupid as he says it. Of course it matters. The source can be just as important as the information. “Akabayashi told me.”

Izaya flicks eyes up at Shiki. “And who told him?”

Shiki shakes his head. “I couldn’t tell you.”

“I see.” Izaya looks lost in thought for a moment. “Well, _I_ didn’t kill him, if that makes you feel any better.”

And Izaya pours himself a cup of coffee before rustling around in the fridge. It takes Shiki a moment.

“There’s no milk.”

“I thought you said you cooked,” Izaya chides, “how can you cook without milk, hmm?”

“Most things don’t call for it,” Shiki says. “Well, if you didn’t kill him, who did? And why now?”

Izaya smirks at him, “Ah, aiming for free information, are we?” but the smirk dies as quickly as it came. “It’s complete coincidence as it turns out.” Izaya smiles at Shiki’s eyebrow. “Ahh, maybe not entirely, no. But I wasn’t the only one looking into Ito, as it may be. Apparently he’d racked up quite the debt, making a few enemies along with his rather impressive mountain of debt.”

“So? Loan sharks don’t usually kill.”

“No,” Izaya agrees. “Which is why I let Higashi sell them the information.”

“Let?”

Izaya’s eyes flash with barely concealed pride. “Information is a competitive business, can’t let my rivals run unchecked, now can I? But that’s neither here nor there.”

He makes a note to ask later, he can tell that Izaya would love to lavish him in the tail of how he came to control the second most prolific broker in the area. But that’s not the topic.

“Normally I’d let Ito do what he would of course,” Izaya says flippantly, “humans are so much more interesting when left to their own whims.” Izaya’s eyes flash to Shiki’s torso briefly, “but there was rather more at play in the moment, can’t have him ruining our game.”

Ah. So the fear in the alley wasn’t a fluke. He really does care. Nice to know.

“I see,” Shiki says.

“Do you?” Izaya says. “Most don’t, not really. Ah, but it could be worse,” Izaya says. He flutters his fingers, “nobody tried to take anything important last time I stopped in.”

Shiki catches his hand. Izaya’s fingers are long and thin and it’s only because Shiki remembers that he knows which one was broken. “It healed nicely.” Good thing, really. It’d be a shame to ruin one of them because their owner can’t tell where to poke them. “Have they made any other moves on you?”

“Hmm,” Izaya says, staring at where their fingers interlace. “Oh, not really. Why, going to come to my rescue? Be my knight in shining armor?” Izaya flutters his lashes suggestively.

“Just concerned,” Shiki says. “Try not to get yourself killed today, I’m sure I’ll be busy enough as it is.” 

* * *

 

Going to work is just as much fun as he thought it would be.

He has to stop by the main offices instead of going straight to his satellite offices, paperwork doesn’t stop just because he did.

Aozaki’s actually here for once, where he’s supposed to be, crouched at his desk, scowling at his computers like it personally did him wrong. He’s large enough that he makes everything in his office look comically small and fragile. Maybe it should be intimidating, but it looks instead like someone let a gorilla out where they shouldn’t be.

Maybe that’s why Aozaki is never here, choosing to be pretty much anywhere else when he has the chance.

Akabayashi is here too, making himself at home at Shiki’s largely unused desk, smoking a cigarette as he lounges with his feet up.

“Feet off the desk,” Shiki says crisply.

“Why?” Akabayashi says, not moving. “You never use it, what does it matter to you?”

“Principle of the thing.”

“Hmm,” Akabayashi reluctantly sets his feet on the ground. “Suppose this is a bad time to tell you that this is the office everyone fucks in, huh?”

“Of course they do,” Shiki says, opening the top drawer and plucking a keyring out, “my offices always see action, whether I’m there or not.”

“What, are you suggesting you’re some sort of fertility god?” Akabayashi says, watching him open one of his filing cabinets. “Last I checked, you were still buying your ass before Orihara swaggered in.”

“That’s about convenience and expectations, not about lack of options. Like you and Aozaki, right?”

Akabayashi laughs, “if that’s what you’ve heard, then I’m sure it’s true.”

“So, what, you waiting for him here?” Shiki fishes around in his filing cabinet. He’s sure he left it here, but he doesn’t remember leaving his files in this sort of disarray. It doesn’t matter much, you don’t hide files you don’t want found out in the open like this with the key in your desk. He just wishes he knew _when_ his files were last rummaged through.

“Nah, I’m here for you,” Akabayashi says. Shiki doesn’t whip his head around, but his shoulders tense and that’s enough. “Not like that, get your mind out of the gutter. Mikiya wants to talk to you.”

“Ah,” Shiki finds the file on the Asuki executives hiding underneath the others, Izaya’s signature red folder faded with time. “Do you know what about?”

“Beats me,” Akabayashi says. “I think he just wants a punching bag.”

“For what?”

“Who knows with him,” Akabayashi sighs, “the color gangs at each other’s throats, meaning the police are at ours. The Asuki attacks. One of his men getting shot. Not being able to get it up last night. His breakfast was late.”

“Charming.”

“Most don’t think so, but daddy issues seems to be your type.”

Shiki ignores him, flipping through the file instead. It’s a couple years old, and like he thought, there’s no mention of Ito, but the rest of the members have remained largely unchanged. Or he thinks so. He’ll ask Izaya (no, _Orihara,_ this is business) for an updated report.

“Hey,” Akabayashi says suddenly, “give me Orihara’s phone number.”

“Don’t you have it?”

“I’ve got one,” Akabayashi admits, “but it only connects to a pleasant young woman that wants me to go die.”

“She said that?”

“Nah, but she didn’t need to either. Whatcha got there?”

“An old report on the Asuki exec’s,” Shiki says, handing it over. “There’s no mention of Ito anywhere.”

“Lotta faith in Orihara you got,” Akabayashi says casually.

“Of course, we would have killed him a long time ago if he wasn’t good at what he did.”

“And what about now?” Akabayashi says, snapping the folder shut and tossing it onto Shiki’s desk.

“He’s still as good as he was before.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Akabayashi says, and he’s got that chillingly serious face on now. On others it might be playful. On him, it’s deadly.

“Have I ever been unable to do what needs to be done?” Shiki answers, snatching the file off his desk and walking out the door.

Let Akabayashi think it’s a denial. Let him think whatever he wants. Shiki knows the answer, and as far as he’s concerned, he’s the only one that needs to.

* * *

 

Maybe there was something to Akabayashi’s theory that Mikiya hadn’t gotten laid last night, cause he rips into Shiki before he’s entirely through the door.

It’s been at least twenty minutes since then, and Mikiya’s still going strong, his face red. Shiki really stopped listening after the first ten minutes, when the table got a hearty slap to emphasize that he really was “tired of all his lieutenants not giving a _damn”_ about what he said.

He’s pretty sure that he felt a few drops of spit at least once, but hasn’t bothered to wipe it off his face.

He tunes back in for, “Akane won’t _listen_ and you went and got your stupid ass shot. What the hell were you _doing?”_

And unlike the previous fifty questions, this one sounds like one he needs to answer.

“Playing poker,” Shiki says.

“Why the hell were you playing poker? Why the fuck did that end up with you getting _shot?”_

Mikiya is close. Really close. Like it makes him more powerful and threatening instead of ridiculous and tiresome. “Some young hotshot with a gun lost.”

Mikiya grabs at his hair. “That’s _it?_ That’s what got you shot? That’s fucking ridiculous.”

“Apparently his family thought so too,” Shiki says. “He’s dead.”

It’s a little teeny white lie. Easy to say he made a mistake. It doesn’t really matter if Mikiya knows the truth or not.

And it works. Mikiya gets himself mostly in check almost instantly now that he’s cleared of all sins and is responsible for _nothing._

“Good,” Mikiya says. “Some paperwork came in for the galleries. One of the guys said he’ll take care of it, but you should go get it anyway.”

“I’ll handle it,” Shiki says, standing and making for the door. There’s no real point in asking _which_ of the guys it is, Mikiya won’t know.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Mikiya says, “we’re planning for a raid on one of the Asuki places, ask that informant for some information. We want it to really hurt.” Shiki can hear Aozaki ringing through in every word.

“Of course,” Shiki says, and successfully makes it through the door.

It’s the beginning of a long day.

He chases down his paperwork, then Akabayashi, then more paperwork, then the missing pages of the paperwork, then the idiot that signed off on a completely false amount of money. Then Akabayashi again for approving that amount of cash just to make his life difficult, but apparently when Akabayashi isn’t busy making himself a pain in Shiki’s ass, he’s roaming the streets making himself a pain in the collective ass of everyone.

He’s not done until around ten, and his side is _throbbing._ He didn’t tear the stiches or anything, but it still makes itself felt like a motherfucker and all he wants is to be knocked unconscious. Maybe he’ll get lucky and be mugged on his way back home.

 

He goes to unlock his door, but pauses.

Maybe it’s a sixth sense, maybe it’s instinct, but whatever it is, it makes him pause. It makes him see the faint scratches around the keyhole on his lock.

It makes him open the door more cautiously, unsurprised to see lights already on and noises coming from the kitchen.

“Honey, I’m home,” he says drily, going down the hallway, bracing himself for needing to call the clean up crew.

Food wrappers litter the floor, a small mountain of empty cans decorate the counter tops, and in the middle of it all is Izaya, contemplating an eggplant mildly past due.

“Hungry?” Shiki says, startling Izaya out of his revere.

“Mhm, not particularly,” Izaya says as his can mountain comes tumbling to the ground.

“Really?”

“I could eat if you’re hungry,” Izaya says casually. “You know eating is a social activity, yes? Something that brings people closer together.”

“Is it?” Shiki says, searching in the pantry for the broom. “Seems hard, if you’re also using your mouth to put food in.”

“Ninety percent of human communication is nonverbal,” Izaya tells him, catching the broom without thinking, and then staring down at his hand as if it betrayed him. “What’s this?”

“It’s a broom,” Shiki says, walking into the living room. “I’ll order pizza when you’re done cleaning up your mess.”

“You don’t like greasy food.”

“But you do.”

“I can buy my own pizza.”

“You could,” Shiki agrees, “but let me know when you’re done cleaning up after yourself.”

And with that, he goes to hunt down that one book he started reading a few months ago. He _thinks_ he left it in the living room, and, ah there it is, sitting on the coffee table. Half open.

Izaya’s gotten much further than Shiki ever did. He wonders briefly what conclusions Izaya’s come to about Shiki, about the world, if he’s even the sort that his world view can be shifted by reading a book.

From the kitchen, Shiki can hear the distant clangs of reluctant cleaning and the faint grumblings of a performance. He’s sure they’re some very creative insults.

He ignores them.

It doesn’t take Izaya long, maybe ten minutes, before he’s back, collapsing half on Shiki. “I’ve finished.”

“Number for the pizza place is on the fridge.”

“What, I have to clean up _and_ order the food?” Izaya whines, but heaves himself up because he is a slave to his stomach like other people are to cash.

“I have no doubt that I won’t order enough,” Shiki says, flipping a page.

“Hm,” is all Izaya says.

And Shiki was right.

Izaya orders ten pizzas and eats all of them, minus the two slices Shiki managed to snag at great risk to his physical safety.

Nightmare fuel.

“Where are you going?” Izaya says, flopped on the couch. Shiki thinks that maybe his stomach is distended, but Izaya shifts, and it’s revealed to be a simple trick of the light.

“Bed.”

“Is this what old age does?” Izaya calls as Shiki shuts his door behind him, cutting off what’s probably a very witty observation on aging.

But Shiki doesn’t care. For once, he’s sure he can actually answer the siren call of sleep, and he collapses onto the bed, barely pausing to change into pajamas on his way.

It’s hours later that he startles awake, someone holding him down into the mattress.

“Oh, it’s you,” he says once the shadows resolve themselves into Izaya.

“Ne, ne, don’t relax. What if I’m here to kill you?”

“I imagine I’d be dead.”

“You don’t sound terribly concerned.”

Shiki shrugs. “And you don’t sound terribly committed.”

“No,” Izaya agrees.

“I thought you would put more of a fight,” Izaya says, fingers curling around his wrists tighter.

“Oh no,” Shiki says, “someone save me from the attractive twenty something that wants to bone me into the mattress.”

Izaya frowns down at him, rolling off to collapse next to him.

“You should have,” Izaya says, crossing his legs.

Does this mean no sex? It looks like it.

Maybe next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keep your eyes peeled for the Planned Sequels, coming in A While to a theater near you!


End file.
